Pomp and Circumstantial Evidence
by miknnik
Summary: Rick and A.J. decide to help their mother and her friend.
1. Chapter 1

A.J. Simon gave his brother, Rick, an exasperated sideway glance while parking his eye-catching red Camaro in front of their mother's home.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, will you stop tugging at the collar? Now you have to straighten your tie again," said he shutting off the car engine.

"I just don't see why we have to dress up to have dinner with our own mother." Rick muttered.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times; she also invited her dear friend and her fiancé, so she wants us to look decent." A.J. cast his eyes on his brother's attire. "Or, at least presentable."

They got out of the Chevy and walked around another vehicle in the driveway: a brand-new Mercedes-Benz 300TD in its shiny glory.

A.J.'s admiring gaze lingered on the luxurious car; Rick kept muttering something under his breath while tightening his tie begrudgingly.

As the brothers knocked on the door, their mother, Cecilia, welcomed them inside with a glowing smile.

"Hello, boys. You look wonderful!" The last comment was mostly for her firstborn, who was in his Sunday best. She gently squeezed their hands and led them inside. "Dinner will be ready shortly, but first, I'd like you to meet the guests of honor."

The soon-to-be-married couple was seated on the sofa with their drinks in their hands.

"Lana, I'm not sure if you remember, but you've met my boys a few times before. This is Rick, my oldest. And this is A.J." Cecilia introduced her sons to the slender woman in her sixties. "Boys, this is Lana Young."

"Yes, yes, I do remember," said Lana to the brothers in delight, "It was over twenty years ago, and you were still young boys. I don't think you remember me though."

On the contrary, they did recall her name although they could not have recognized the old woman before them had their mother not mentioned her name.

When they had first met, Rick had been thirteen or fourteen, no longer a little kid, but she had treated him like one and bruised his teenage ego by patting his head and pecking on his cheek in front of his buddies and younger brother.

She had equally humiliated A.J. treating him like a baby in the big boys' presence by patting his head and behind, pinching and kissing on his cheeks repeatedly.

"It's so nice to see you again, Mrs. Young. I remember meeting you too; you haven't changed much, ma'am." A.J. smiled.

Rick stared at his brother in disbelief. There were flatteries, and then there were obvious lies. He simply mumbled "Hi" to her.

Cecilia proceeded to introduce the man seated by Lana Young. "And this is Alain Dupré. He and Lana announced their engagement just last week."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dupré, and congratulations on your engagement," said A.J. politely if somewhat reservedly.

Dupré, who seemed slightly younger than his betrothed, nodded his patrician head like a nobleman acknowledging a commoner genuflecting before him. "Thank you, and the pleasure's all mine." He was obviously a Frenchman attempting to speak British English, and he sounded as warm as a two-day-old stiff at the morgue.

"Nice to meet you, Allen," said Rick.

Dupré arched his elegant eyebrow. "It's ALAIN, my dear boy." He sternly corrected Rick's pronunciation.

The old man's condescending tone, coupled with the fact he had just maligned him by calling him his dear boy, rubbed Rick the wrong way, but all he said was, "Sorry."

Just then, the oven timer went off in the kitchen distracting everyone from the awkward moment.

_Saved by the bell._

The same thought ran through the minds of the entire Simon family.

"Perfect timing!" Cecilia beamed. "I'll go bring the food out, so why don't you have a seat at the dining table? A.J., could you please give me a hand in the kitchen?" She placed her hand on A.J.'s arm.

Rick wished she had asked him to help her. It would be darn awkward, to say the least, to sit at the table with two strangers that he was not too familiar with.

"Oh, Lana, Alain. Shall I refresh your apréritifs?" asked Cecilia.

Lana declined her offer by merely shaking her head, but Dupré raised his wine glass.

"Yes, I'd like some more of this… _Comment devrais-je le dire_?" He paused trying to put his finger on the English word he was looking for. "Ah, amusing. Yes, this amusing California Sherry."

A.J. was offended by his snide remark. He was a California native and proud of the quality of wines the in-state vineyards produced. Furthermore, he had helped his mother pick this fortified wine for this particular occasion.

"Amusing? Don't you think it has an excellent bouquet?" He tried to keep his voice even.

"_Mais oui, mon cher garçon_. That, too."

Cecilia felt her son's arm muscle stiffen under her hand and hastily said, "I'm glad to hear you like it, Alain. And A.J., would you go get the bottle and pour some more for our guest please?"

So the dinner party, purported to celebrate a joyous, blessed event, got off to a rocky start. Rick had never cared for this kind of get-together that was normally reserved for introducing Cecilia's new boyfriend, but, on such occasions, he could at least talk about his mother with the guests. This time, however, he felt like an outsider while she and her friends were talking about things and events he had no knowledge of.

He observed that his brother was withdrawn as well. A.J. was usually more sociable and gregarious at a social gathering than he and often entertained everyone with his witty comments and anecdotes. Not tonight though—he was courteous and spoke when he was spoken to, like a polite child at the dinner table who was anxious to be excused to go back to his room as soon as the food on his plate was gone. He dutifully praised Cecilia's cooking, rack of lamb, although he did not seem to be enjoying the meal so much.

The whole dinner affair dragged on interminably, or so it seemed to Rick and A.J., but in reality, it was over in less than three hours. Watching their mother exchange the last good-byes with the old couple at the door, they felt drained.

When she returned to the living room where her sons were lounging, Cecilia was no longer smiling.

"Boys, I want to ask you some questions," said she. "And I want your honest answers."

Her dead serious countenance—the look they had always associated with a long-winded lecture in the old days—made Rick and A.J. a little unnerved, and they exchanged a quick glance.

"Sure, Mom." A.J. smiled tentatively.

"We're not in trouble or anything, are we?" asked Rick just to be sure while undoing his tie. If he was in for a long sermon, he might as well get comfortable.

"Of course not." She cracked a smile albeit briefly. "Why do you think that you're in trouble, honey?"

"Force of habit," said A.J. "On his part anyway."

"Yeah, like your disrespect for your older brother. Know what else comes natural to me?" Rick glared at A.J. showing him his clenched fist.

"Rick, A.J., please. I'm serious." Cecilia pleaded. "I'm actually asking you a favor; I'd like your honest opinions on Alain."

One look at her face was enough to convince her sons that she was upset. A.J. was more attuned to her moods than his brother simply because, during his teenage years, his then-young, widowed mother had been his only family for two long years after Rick had been shipped to Vietnam.

"Is that why you invited us for dinner? Because you wanted us to meet him?" asked A.J.

After the slightest hesitation, she answered, "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell us that before? I woulda paid much more attention if you had," Rick said with a puzzled expression.

"Because I'd like to hear your unbiased opinions." Seeing a certain look cross her sons' faces, she continued, "I know you and Alain didn't hit it off, but I'd like you to set your personal feelings aside and be more objective."

"Sure, Mom." A.J. smiled at her assuredly. "But perhaps it's easier and more efficient if you pick the questions you'd like us to answer."

Cecilia bit her lower lip lightly, thinking. "Did it show that they deeply care for each other? Do you think Lana and Alain are really in love?"

"Lana is, for sure," Rick immediately answered. "She's all giggly and starry-eyed like a young girl with a crush on a boy in Math class. I mean, she's older than you, but she's behaving like a goofball fawning over _Allen_."

He took great pleasure in mispronouncing the Frenchman's name on purpose.

"Yup, just like you were when you fell hard for that exchange student, Ingeborg… What was her last name?"

"A.J.!" Cecilia called her youngest down for being fresh for no reason.

"Sorry."

Rick glowered at his brother's smiling face that looked anything but apologetic.

"What about Alain? Did he appear to be in love with Lana?"

Still scowling, Rick said, "Hard to tell. He always has a right thing to say, but how sincere he is, I don't know."

A.J. nodded in agreement. "He definitely has the old country charm that many American ladies find hard to resist, and it's not just his accent and mannerism. He has polished, elegant manners and is so attentive he can make a woman believe he only has eyes for her. I'm pretty sure he can turn up his sex appeal at the drop of a hat to seduce any woman of a certain age if he sets his mind to it."

"So, you think Lana's marrying a wrong guy? Is that what you're afraid of?" asked Rick.

Cecilia looked miserable and sighed heavily. "It's just that she doesn't know him all that well. All he told her is that he's a descendant of a Russian noble family exiled in Paris."

"Dupré doesn't sound too Russian," commented Rick.

"A number of Russian aristocrats fled the country before, during and after the fall of the Romanov Dynasty and sought refuge in various countries around the world—Europe, America, Asia—and often married into the local families, especially young, nubile women and girls." A.J. cited one of the possible explanations.

"But he doesn't have any proof of that, does he?" Rick asked his mother.

"None whatsoever," said she shaking her head. "Oh, she says she's met a couple of his friends who call him 'Your Highness,' but he hasn't shown her anything that indicates the noble heritage he claims he has."

"How long has she known him?" asked A.J.

"Only for two, three months. The ink on the death certificate for Ethan, her late husband, was barely dry when they first met."

"I assume she's well-to-do. I couldn't help noticing her brand-new Mercedes-Benz when we got here."

"She was born into a wealthy family and married to a very successful business man, but the car isn't hers."

"Oh, it's Alain's then?"

"Yes, she bought it for him—among other things."

That piece of information was surprising and disconcerting as well. Rick and A.J. now fully understood why their mother was so concerned about her friend.

"You think he's marrying for money," stated Rick. It was not a question.

"I don't know, honey. And that's what's killing me—not knowing." Cecilia was the picture of misery. "They may really love each other, but Lana's been showering Alain with gifts, very expensive gifts. The bulk of her asset is tied up in stocks, bonds and real estate, but she still has a large sum of money in the bank that she received from the insurance company after Ethan's passing. I know it's not my place to tell her how to spend her fortune, and I don't want to jeopardize our friendship by being a busybody."

"If they get married, he'll get more direct access to her wealth," said Rick.

"And if, God forbid, anything should happen to her after they're married, he'd be able to liquidate some or most of her asset that he can't touch while she's still alive," said A.J.

The doubt that Cecilia had been trying to push back was finally out in the open, and it frightened her.

"Oh, Mom. Come here." Sensing her fear, A.J. embraced and rocked her gently. "You know Rick and I can put your mind at ease."

"But, honey…"

"No, no buts." Rick cut her off. "We're between cases. If we weren't, we'd still be happy to prove Dupré's a phony."

His unshakable conviction made her smile in spite of the emotional upheaval.

"Now, Rick, I know you're not a big fan of Alain's, but I don't want you to become the proverbial judge and jury."

"Don't worry, Mom, I won't let him," said A.J. with a grin.

"I'll pay you the usual fees and…"

"No, Mom. This one's on the house." Rick declared. "Like I said, we have some free time. This is no different than other chores we do for you like painting the house, mowing the lawn…"

"Thank you, sweetheart," said Cecilia choking up. She hugged her two sons tightly.

When she finally released them from the embrace, Rick looked her in the eye and said, "Okay, now let's get down to business. Tell us all you know about Lana and Dupré."


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning, Rick and A.J. drove into the nicest neighborhood in La Jolla, looking for Lana Young's home. They soon found out it was more than just a home; it was a mansion, or estate, one might call it. In short, it was a huge home that offered panoramic views of the beach down below and the Pacific Ocean.

As they were about to get out of A.J.'s Chevy, the short, rotund passenger with glasses in the backseat glanced back to take another look at the place and whistled. "Nice place."

"Yeah, but we're not here for Open House, so let's get moving, okay, Ditto?" said Rick.

The Simons had requested his service to authenticate official documents they might find including, but not limited to, the Frenchman's passport, birth certificate and legal correspondence. According to Cecilia, Dupré had moved into the guesthouse shortly after he and Lana had first met.

A.J. had parked his car almost a block ahead of Lana's home, and he and his brother had already started traipsing back by the time Ditto got out of the backseat with a black satchel. His short legs had to work extra hard to keep pace with the brothers' long strides.

When he finally caught up with them, he was panting.

"Hey, guys. The main house is over there."

"According to our source, this is where Dupré is staying," said A.J.

Ditto grinned, "I bet you a C-note he doesn't sleep here."

"Sorry, no bets," said Rick chuckling. "But I figure he doesn't want to keep his private, confidential paperwork in his lady friend's bedroom."

"So, which one of you is gonna pick the lock?" Ditto asked excitedly.

"Neither one of us," said A.J. producing a key from his pocket. "Our mother and Mrs. Young have each other's house key for emergency purposes."

"You have a key?" The document expert was clearly disappointed. "Where's the fun in that?"

"This may not be as exciting as breaking and entering, but we're entering the premises legally, sort of, so theoretically, we can argue on technicalities if we get caught. Safety above cheap thrills, Ditto."

The trio walked into the guesthouse, which was much larger than a regular one-bedroom home. Earlier, Cecilia had called and lured Lana out of her home under the guise of shopping. Rick and A.J. knew Dupré ran a modest antique store in downtown San Diego and put in a few hours every morning, and that the cleaning crew and the gardeners came every Monday to provide their weekly services.

"We'll be alone for the next few hours, so let's make the most of it," said Rick.

"When the cat's away, the mice will play." Ditto giggled.

They immediately began to search likely places to keep important documents: drawers, boxes in the closet, under the bed, security file. While A.J. was picking the lock on the roll-top desk, Rick worked on the water- and fire-proof security file he'd discovered in the bedroom closet and found, among other documents, a French passport inside.

He eagerly scanned the information on the page with an ID photo: Alain Vasily Dupré, born in Paris, age 63. There was nothing that contradicted Dupré's claim. He tossed the passport to Ditto.

"Here. Have a crack at it."

Ditto caught it with one hand and took out a magnifying loupe, the kind jewelers would use, from his satchel that he wore across the body.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh…" He muttered to himself examining the lamination on the ID page, his face hovering only a few inches above it.

"What? What do you see?" Rick asked expectantly.

"I can tell you what I don't see: there's no tampering on this page as far as I can see."

A.J. was standing by the window going through the documents found in the roll-top but dropped everything all of a sudden when he sensed some movement in the corner of his eye. He looked out the window.

"Oh, no! Rick!"

"What?"

"Dupré's back!"

"What? What's he doin' here?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Maybe he's going to the main…"

"No! He's coming over here!"

Rick snatched the passport out of Ditto's hand, tossed it back in the security file and shoved it into his arms.

"Go hide in the closet, and put this back in there just like I found it," he gave commands to the document expert in a harsh whisper.

Although he'd hoped for some excitement, this was more than Ditto had bargained for. His heart pounding, he scurried to the bedroom.

Seeing his brother frantically cleaning up the clutter he'd created, Rick said, "Hide under the bed. I'll find some place to hide in the bathroom."

"Got it."

Before heading for the bathroom, Rick checked on the lock on the door to make sure it was engaged.

As he was trying to lock the roll-top, A.J. could hear Dupré's approaching footsteps then the keys jangling at the door. He finally locked the desk, but the door key was already in the keyhole.

Making a mad dash to the bedroom, he heard the door open. He slid under the bed head first as the door closed.

Rick stood still in the corner of the bathtub and wrapped himself in the shower curtain a little tighter. Fortunately for him, the material of the curtain was not clear plastic; it had a geometric pattern on a solid, opaque color.

Ditto was breathing hard in the far corner of the bedroom closet perspiring profusely. He prayed this dicey situation he was in neck-deep wouldn't give him a coronary.

They could hear Dupré ambling about in the living room. When they heard him walking up the hallway, they involuntarily held their breaths in unison.

Ditto's heart was hammering in the chest cavity as Dupré's footsteps drew near. He'd had to leave the closet door half open just the way it had been, and he was afraid Dupré might be able to hear him breathe.

From his hiding place, A.J. saw Dupré's small, delicate feet, ensconced in a pair of Berluti shoes, coming into the narrow field of his vision. When they came to a halt by the bed, the level of anxiety spiked making him dig his fingers deeper into the carpet.

He heard Dupré pick up the telephone receiver. While attempting to make a call, the Frenchman dropped his keys. A.J. could not help holding his breath and cringing away from the keys as Dupré bent over to pick them up.

Unable to see what was going on, Rick and Ditto listened intently in their own hiding places.

"_Allô. C'est moi_."

Dupré was on the phone. He carried the entire conversation in rapid-fire French, ending with a curt "_Salut_."

The phone call lasted less than a minute. As soon as he put down the receiver on the cradle, he walked out of the bedroom, heading straight for the door.

The moment the front door opened and closed, Rick jumped out of the bathtub and moved cautiously yet swiftly down on the hallway. Making sure the coast was clear, he ventured back into the living room.

A.J. and Ditto also came out of their hiding places and found Rick standing by the window looking out.

"A.J., what did he say on the phone?" Rick asked with his eyes still riveted on his mark that was walking back to his car in the driveway.

"I couldn't understand all of it, but he said, 'I'll meet you there shortly. Be sure to bring your men,' I think."

"Did he say where they're hooking up?"

"As far as I know, no."

"Okay, let's find out what kind of company he keeps," said Rick watching Dupré get in his Mercedes-Benz. "I'll let you know when it's safe to go out. Go get your car. I'll make sure which he's going. And leave the house key with me."

As A.J. tossed the key to Rick, there was the sound of a car engine turning over. A few seconds later, Rick said, "Okay, A.J. Go."

Ditto, after some indecisive moments, tried to follow A.J.

"Oh no, you don't, Ditto." Rick grabbed his arm. "You're not coming with us. There's a change in our plan—now we're on a tail job."

"What? How am I going back home?"

Rick got a couple of twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet and slapped them in Ditto's hand.

"Here. Call a cab. If that's not enough for the fare, put the balance on the bill for your service. Here's the key. Be sure to lock the door when you leave."

"But…"

Just like that, and the Simon brothers were gone without giving Ditto a chance to protest. He realized he was now standing alone in the guesthouse holding the money in his sweaty hand.

Walking over to the phone, he found his loupe lying under the coffee table.

"Oh, boy…"

He whimpered, too afraid to think what he might have done and its consequences.


	3. Chapter 3

Dupré got on I-5 southbound, and naturally, the Simons assumed he was going back to his shop in downtown San Diego; however, he got off the freeway and started heading east.

"I wonder where he's heading," said A.J.

"I sure hope he's not going to some estate sale to get stuff for his store."

A.J. looked around while driving and said, "It looks like, in this neighborhood, the best people can come up with is a garage or yard sale."

There were a number of vacant homes and businesses on the streets, which were poorly maintained.

Dupré slowed his car to park it on the street. It stood out among other cars, mostly beaters in various stages of falling apart. Most people with enough common sense might worry about leaving an expensive car in a neighborhood like this, but he sauntered up to the pay phone nearby like he did not have a care in the world.

"Come on, hang up the phone and get movin'." Rick grumbled impatiently keeping an eye on him.

About a half block of distance separated the brothers and Dupré, so they could not listen in on the conversation. A.J. kept his Camaro idling just in case.

After ending a brief call, Dupré started walking away from the Simons and his car.

Ready for action, Rick jumped out of the Chevy before A.J. shut off the engine.

Dupré made a turn and walked into an alley between two rundown stores.

Rick and A.J. followed him into the alley and saw him enter some commercial building through the backdoor. Rick was ahead of his brother and walking past a dumpster when a large arm shot out and struck him squarely on the jaw. The impact knocked him down.

Seeing Rick hit the ground with a loud thud, A.J. felt a burst of adrenaline and immediately got into the fighting mode to aid his brother, but someone grabbed his arm from behind, spun him around and punched him in the face.

As more blows began to rain down on them, the brothers realized that Dupré had set them up. They tried to fight back at first but soon accepted the fact that they were no match for a group of four oversized hoodlums who were obviously gym rats. They quickly realized that no weapons were involved, and that the sole purpose of this assault was intimidation. So, for the time being, they decided to surrender.

Fortunately—or, unfortunately—the brothers had had plenty of experience to know that the best way to lessen the impact of a beating was to relax the body. Easier said than done though. As Rick and A.J. tried to keep their joints loose and the bodies limp, a member of the quartet with jet-black hair gleefully taunted them, "You're not wimping out already, are ya?"

Rick's quick temper had landed him in a tight spot more than he cared to count in the past, and once again, it quashed his rational inner voice. Before the muscle with a big mouth could strike him again, Rick's booted foot shot up, hitting his abdomen hard.

The muscle staggered and landed heavily on the rear end. When he got up on his feet, he had a murderous look on his face, but Rick didn't have to see it to know he had hell to pay.

Till then, the thugs had been taking it easy so as not to knock out the Simon brothers right away. They had wanted to keep them conscious as long as possible to inflict pain and prolong their suffering in order to deliver their message: back off. But the man who had been kicked in the gut was now hell-bent for retaliation. He grabbed Rick's shirt and leaned forward to feed him a knuckle sandwich, a real meaty one.

The powerful, teeth-rattling blow felt like an explosion, and Rick's vision started graying out as he received another. He heard someone say, "Hey, what the hell do you think you're doin'?"

Mercifully, he blacked out before the angry hooligan delivered the third punch.

_**S&S S&S**_

Rick came to because of the pain. His body hurt from head to toe as though it had gone through a meat grinder—twice. After opening his eyes just a crack—they wouldn't open all the way anyway—what he saw first was the clear blue sky sectioned by the roofs of the surrounding buildings and power lines.

It took him a few moments to remember where he was and what had happened. And why he was lying in the filth on the ground. The dumpster sat between him and the mouth of the alley so the passers-by wouldn't have noticed him tossed out like a piece of garbage.

"A.J.?" He winced in pain as he spoke. "Hey, A.J., where are you?"

When his brother failed to respond, he turned over and slowly, ever so slowly, put his palms down on the cobblestones to push his body off the ground. Groaning, he gripped the corner of the dumpster to steady himself. He lifted the dumpster lid to take a look inside—no sign of his brother there.

"A.J.!"

As panic threatened to set in, he caught a glimpse of a hand peeking out of the pile of empty crates and cardboard boxes on the other side of the alley. He moved as fast as his body allowed him to, which was about the speed and agility of a ninety-five-year-old man with arthritic knees getting out of bed.

His brother was half buried under the junk; only his hand, hair and a part of his leg were visible.

Rick pulled him up, but he was still unconscious. A.J.'s pallid face was bloodied and bruised, and he figured he probably looked just as bad, maybe worse, thanks to the punk he'd had the pleasure of kicking. He noticed that A.J.'s gun was still in its belt holster, and, as he patted on his left side, he could feel his gun in the rightful place.

Grasping the lapels of A.J.'s jacket, he shook his brother gently. "Hey, A.J. You okay?"

A.J. was unresponsive lying on the junk pile motionlessly. Rick pressed his ear on his chest and heard a slow, steady heartbeat. He remembered passing out fairly early during the assault, but how much longer had A.J. remained conscious while getting worked over by four gorillas? Seconds? Minutes?

Rick was seriously wondering if he should call an ambulance when his brother finally started to come around. His body twitching, A.J. let out a barely audible moan.

"Come on, A.J. Can you hear me? For God's sake, say something!" Rick yelled while softly squeezing his brother's left hand that seemed relatively injury-free.

A.J. mumbled something that Rick couldn't quite make out.

"What?" Rick asked anxiously.

A.J.'s eyes opened slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was a little stronger, "I'm not deaf… Stop yelling at me."

Relieved, Rick felt like laughing and, at the same time, slapping him for being a smart-ass and making him worry.

Although his mouth and ears worked fine, the rest of the body did not, and A.J. needed some help getting off the heap of crates and boxes. He hobbled like a centenarian with arthritis in his knees, elbows and shoulders.

"Maybe you should have a doctor check you out," said Rick picking up and putting his hat back on.

A.J. considered his brother's suggestion for a moment but gingerly shook his head.

"You think you'll be all right?"

The younger Simon only nodded as if it were too much for him to speak.

"Wanna go home now?"

"No. Not now."

"What do you wanna do then?"

A.J. cocked his head then promptly regretted doing so grimacing in pain. "Where's the nearest police precinct?"

"What? You wanna report this?" Rick's tone was clearly that of disapproval.

"So that we'll be able to take a look at the mug shots there." A.J. elaborated. "Right now, we don't have a lot to go on—hell, we have no proof, even circumstantial evidence against Dupré. We've got to start somewhere."

Rick didn't have to think too long to agree that A.J. was right—as usual.

"Well, I'm glad your brain still works fine after getting whupped." He slapped his brother's back.

"Ow!" A.J. cried out in pain. "Damn it, Rick!"

"Oops, sorry."

"You did that on purpose!"

"What? Why do you think I'd do such a thing?"

"Because you're demented and take pleasure in tormenting your own brother!"

Rick shot an annoyed glare at A.J. "I take back what I just said—you musta gotten one knock too many to your noggin!"

As they walked back to their car, they kept yelling at each other, receiving furtive glances from the pedestrians, who avoided eye contact and hurried off.

Yelling, however, was their usual coping mechanism to vent their frustration and anger and to keep their minds off the physical discomfort. Sadly, they'd done this so many times in the past it was almost their routine after being trounced.

Getting in the Camaro slowly and carefully to not aggravate the injuries, Rick took a deep breath before speaking up again. "Are we done?"

A.J. also inhaled deeply before he answered. "Yeah, I suppose," said he tiredly.

"They're always so big," Rick said in lament.

"What?"

"The guys who beat us up—why do they always have to be so big?"

A.J. rolled his eyes because it did not hurt that much to do so. "Because that's one of very few job qualifications for a goon. They're supposed to be big and intimidating."

"And they don't fight fair. We could've clobbered them if it'd been one-on-one."

Slack-jawed, A.J. stared at his brother for a moment. "You must have had your brains scrambled. Just one of them could have tied us up in a human pretzel and put us in a hospital. We should consider ourselves lucky."

"Call me strange, but I'm not feelin' so lucky right now."

They took a short drive to the police station in relative silence and a lot of pain.


	4. Chapter 4

A.J. parked his car about a block away from the police station. Getting out of the vehicle, Rick pointed at the pay phone near the entrance and said, "Let's make a call first."

"What? We're here already."

"No, what I mean is, call Susie, or Barbara and have her call someone at this precinct to cut the red tape."

That made sense though A.J. did not say it aloud. Maybe one of their contacts at their regular precinct would be able to do some gentle arm-twisting to expedite the legal process. And that meant A.J. would have to call and exercise his magic on one of the female officers; those ladies merely tolerated Rick whereas he and the male cops often butted their heads.

After the call, Rick and A.J. waited for a minute or two more before walking into the police station.

The officer at the reception desk had neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper—and was close to the retirement age. When his eyes rested on the brothers, he cried out, "Good God! What happened? And who did that to you?"

"We got jumped by four big guys in an alley," said Rick not wanting to go into detail.

"If you need medical attention, someone can escort you to the nearest ER and get your statement there."

"Oh no, sir. That's not…"

As A.J. started to decline the officer's offer, he and his brother heard someone behind them say, "Are you A.J. and Rick Simon?"

The Simons turned their heads and saw a middle-aged plainclothes detective, who looked like an aging prizefighter—the kind of man you wouldn't want to bump into in a dark alley.

"Yeah. I'm Rick Simon, and this is my brother, A.J."

The detective nodded. "Lt. Longo." Then he said to the uniform at the desk, "It's okay, Callahan. I'll take it from here. Give them IDs."

After scribbling their names on the sign-in sheet and clipping on the visitor's badges in a hurry, the brothers followed the detective. He abruptly stopped in front of the men's room in the hallway and turned around. "Why don't you boys clean up a little bit before we start? I know you're PIs and may be used to something like this, but I don't want you to scare an old lady who might be in the office to file a complaint or something."

"That bad?" asked Rick.

Longo shrugged. "I've seen worse, a lot worse, but you two could be the sorriest-looking pair of the week so far."

The brothers could see the detective was right when they looked at their reflections on the bathroom mirrors: bloodied nose, black eyes, busted lip, blood on their clothes that had tears…

They looked more pitiful than frightening though, like the way Marlowe had looked after their neighbor's dog—an eleven-year-old female dog—had attacked him without provocation. They cleaned themselves up as fast and meticulously as they could.

They still drew some curious or nervous stares from a handful of good citizens reporting crimes and desk jockeys working on some paperwork and bored out of their skulls. One agitated suspect in handcuffs, quite possibly under the influence of some substance, started laughing hysterically as they walked past him.

Longo picked up several binders in his office and led Rick and A.J. to one of the interview rooms.

"You can have more privacy here. Take as much time as you want. If you find the one, or the ones who worked you over, let me know."

The brothers thanked the detective.

"Want something to drink? Coffee, tea, soda?"

"I could use something stronger," said Rick with a rueful grin. "But it'd be great if you could get us some black coffee."

Longo nodded. "I'll have someone bring you a whole pot. I can't guarantee you the taste, but it's strong at least."

The brothers chuckled out of courtesy to him.

Before long, a female officer brought a big thermos, a couple of mugs and a bottle of aspirin to the interview room. Setting them down on the table, she stared at Rick and A.J. for good several seconds then left the room shaking her head.

Longo had been right about the coffee; it didn't taste all that great but was strong and hot. Aspirin was also a nice touch. Rick eagerly swallowed a couple of tablets dry, hardly registering the acidic taste.

As the Simon brothers pored over the mug shots, minutes passed melding into an hour then into two. They occasionally solicited each other's opinion when they found a photograph of a man who vaguely resembled one of the assailants, but they mostly worked in silence.

Suddenly, A.J. straightened his back and cried out pointing at one of the mug shots, "Rick, I think this is one of the guys!"

Rick leaned over to have a close look. It was undoubtedly the man who had beaten him senseless, the one with raven hair and cold, steely eyes.

He and A.J. went back to Longo's office and showed him the photo.

The detective looked up the data. "Gary Chapman, strictly a small-timer: disorderly conduct, DUI, possession of controlled substance, etc., etc. And we suspect he abuses steroid though we don't know for sure."

_Steroid! No wonder he's so big and mean. And he's a cheater, too!_ Rick somehow felt mixed emotions of anger and elation.

"Do you have his current address? And may we have a copy of his photo?" A.J. asked.

"I'll give you a copy before you leave. As for the address, I'll write it down for you." Longo's handwriting was elegant and almost feminine. "This is the last known address, but his parole ended several weeks ago, so I'm not sure if he still lives there."

"That's fine—all we need is something to start with," said Rick reaching for the piece of paper.

Longo did not let go of it and looked the Simons in the eyes. "Now, listen. I'm doing this only because Susie vouched for you, and I know she's a good judge of character. But if you misuse this piece of information to do something even marginally illegal, I won't hesitate to throw the book at you two. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

A.J. Simon looked and sounded sincere and ingenuous, but Longo had dealt with a number of young recidivists with squeaky-clean mugs who'd lie through their teeth.

"Sure thing, Lieutenant."

Rick Simon, on the other hand, had an air of cockiness and cunning that the detective often saw in con artists. Despite his fellow officer's word, Longo was wary of private eyes in general—there were so many shady ones out there.

As the brothers started to rise from their chairs, he said wearily, "Whatever you do, don't get beaten up in my jurisdiction next time."

_**S&S S&S**_

Rick and A.J. drove straight to Gary Chapman's last known address, about twenty minutes drive from the police station. The address belonged to an abandoned building that might attract transients.

"Do parole officers ever check on their parolees' homes?" grumbled Rick feeling deflated.

A.J. shrugged. "Like Longo said, Chapman's a small-timer. His PO probably had too many cases on his plate to worry about petty criminals."

Just to be thorough, they checked out the duplex. Each unit had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and a living/dining room. The first unit was vacant but vandalized. All the light fixtures, toilets, sinks and faucets had been removed. The condition was deplorable with trash strewn all over, and the stench of human and perhaps animal waste was so strong it made the brothers' eyes water.

The second unit was in the similar condition, but when they found the door of one of the bedrooms shut, they cautiously opened it, guns drawn.

"YAAAAAAH!"

A crazed man with stringy dark hair in filthy clothes jumped out of the shadowy corner and lunged towards the doorway, scaring the daylights out of them. They somehow managed to hold their fire.

The man obviously had some mental issues and swung his arms wildly screaming incoherent threats peppered with obscenities. In this mild weather, he was wearing a heavy Navy pea coat, and Rick wondered if he was yet another veteran with psychological issues.

"Hey, take it easy, pal. We're gonna leave you alone, okay?" He signaled A.J. "Come on, let's get outa here."

Stepping outside, the brothers still could hear the transient screaming inside.

It was already early evening, and they reluctantly decided to call it a day.


	5. Chapter 5

Only when they cruised into their familiar territory, did Rick and A.J. stop at the ER they had been to more than a few times in the past. It was a bit disconcerting that they and some of the medical staff members were on a first-name basis.

As they waited in the examination room, a familiar face waltzed in with a nurse.

"Oh, no. Not again," exclaimed Dr. Jarred Wang. "What happened this time?"

When Rick opened his mouth to answer the question, the doctor held up his hand and said, "No, wait. Let me guess—you tried to sneak into a bar and got caught by the bouncer."

"Not even close." Rick grinned. "Got ambushed by four big guys in the middle of a tail job."

"Ooh, you guys must be slipping." Dr. Wang grinned back.

"Hey, do we tell you how to do your job?"

"Point well taken. Okay, let's start."

"But you can skip the basic questions, Doc."

A.J. nodded. "We know our names, dates of birth, where we are. No nausea, vomiting, dizziness, difficulty breathing or walking, no change in vision, no numbness or tingling sensation anywhere in our bodies."

"Okay. Fine by me," said the doctor with a shrug.

The nurse, a matronly woman who was at least a decade older than anyone else in the room, harrumphed disapprovingly to let them know how she felt about not adhering to the strict protocol.

After an abbreviated Q&A session, the doctor and the nurse irrigated and cleansed the cuts and lacerations, quite arguably the worst part of the treatment, and dressed a few gashes. The doctor also had the nurse give Rick a tetanus shot for he could not remember when he had received the last one. The X-ray images showed no fracture or intracranial hemorrhage.

"I pronounce you men with extremely hard skulls," announced the doctor. "I'll prescribe something for the pain and have the paperwork ready for your discharge."

"Thanks, Doc. Just so you know, we don't need the discharge instructions either," said Rick.

"We know what symptoms to watch out for," A.J. assured the doctor.

"Yeah, I guess. Fine then. You're good to go as soon as I write the prescriptions. I hope you'll be able to stay away from this place for a while though. No matter how often you pop in here, we can't issue you a fast pass or coupon, you know."

The nurse gave the young doctor a chilly stare. She had little patience with cocky, know-it-all, 'baby' doctors. The smart-alecky patients equally irritated her—especially the one with a hat.

Rick picked up a bad vibe from the nurse and curtailed the chitchat with Dr. Wang not to offend her any further just in case. _You'll never know which nurse you get stuck with next time._

_**S&S S&S**_

A.J. was a food snob who would turn up his nose at junk food in general, but he didn't object when Rick suggested they pick up an order of fast food on the way home.

Returning home, they flopped down on the couch and ate their humble supper with the enthusiasm of a child who was forced to eat Brussels sprouts. Rick chewed mechanically without tasting the food. A.J. gave up on his burger after a few bites and sucked on the straw, relishing the cold sweetness of milkshake going down the throat.

Suddenly, the kitchen door opened, and the brothers heard a familiar, cheerful voice. "Hi, it's me."

"Hi, Mom. Over here," said Rick.

Cecilia continued her chatter as she walked in. "I've been trying to reach you all day. I stopped by your office this…"

She abruptly stopped talking and gasped when her sons looked up at her from their seats.

"Oh, no! What happened?"

"Compliments of Dupré. He sent us four men to dodge our tail."

Cecilia was beside herself. "Oh, I'm so sorry I have put you up to this."

"Don't be, Mom. It goes to show you have every right to be worried about him and Lana." Rick managed to say through the pain in the jaw, which made it hard for him to speak.

"Please forget that I asked you to spy on Alain. I want you to drop the investigation right now. I'll let Lana know what kind of man he really is."

"Sorry, Mom. No can do," said Rick shaking his achy head.

"Why? I'm your client, and I…"

"No, Mom. Technically you're not our client. As we said, this one's on the house," said A.J. "Besides, she wouldn't listen to you while she's mooning over him. Love makes you not only blind but damn foolish, incapable of rational thinking. Had she had any inkling of his past and what he really is, she wouldn't have spent her money so lavishly on him."

"But if she sees how badly you're…"

"We all know without a doubt who's responsible for this attack, but there isn't a shred of evidence that Dupré's behind it. Not at the moment anyway." A.J. shook his head.

"But it doesn't make any difference now. This case's got nothing to do with you or Lana anymore—it's personal. It's between him and me and A.J," Rick informed her.

Before she could voice her protest, A.J. spoke up. "You said that you've been trying to reach us all day. Is there any reason for it?"

Cecilia hesitated to answer for a few moments. "Yes, as a matter of fact," said she reluctantly.

It was clear to her sons she was vacillating, and they waited patiently for her response.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, she said, "Lana called me this afternoon. She was so ecstatic I barely managed to utter a few words here and there while we were on the phone."

Whatever Lana Young was excited about could not be good.

"She said Alain had called to let her in on a secret—he's made all the necessary travel arrangements so that they'll be able to fly out to Paris next week to have a private, intimate wedding there. She wants me to go shopping with her to help her pick the wedding dress."

Rick and A.J. had been expecting to hear bad news, but the latest information hit them hard.

"Damn it!" Rick slapped the uneaten portion of his burger on the plate with a flash of anger. "He's trying to marry her before we can expose him. And we can't do anything about it once they leave the country."

They fell silent for a brief moment. Cecilia was the first to speak again choosing her words carefully. "Listen, Rick. I've known Lana for a quarter of a century, and she's one of my closest friends, but you and A.J. are my sons. Family comes before anyone or anything. I'm sure you still have time to prove Alain's no good even after she gets married."

"We know that, but no need to worry," said Rick. "We got hurt 'cause we slacked off—we didn't take Dupré too seriously, and we were sloppy. It won't happen again. I promise you that."

He stood up and wrapped his arms around his mother, who seemed to be on the verge of tears.

"And I promise you we'll nail him before he can whisk Lana away. Trust us. Will you do that? Please?"

After a brief moment, Cecilia nodded. "Yes, dear."

"Good!" He patted her back with a smile and freed her from the bear hug. "For now, act normal and don't say anything to her about what happened today. And let us know if she tells you anything new, okay?"

"All right," said she in a low voice.

"We'll be careful, so try not to worry too much if you can help it." Rick grinned. "We may not look devilishly handsome like we usually do, but Jarred Wang said we're not seriously hurt. He also said we're literally hardheaded."

Watching her son tapping his forehead, she offered him a fleeting smile and started back to the kitchen to leave. "Fine. I'll let you go back to your supper. But be sure to take utmost precautions. And try to get a good night's sleep tonight, honey. Call me if you need anything."

Rick opened the door for her. Before stepping outside, she stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

"Thank you, Rick. And please be careful," she whispered.

"We will, Mom."

"Good night, A.J.," said she a little louder to her youngest, who remained seated on the couch.

"Good night, Mom." A.J. sounded, not surprisingly, a little tired.

When he closed the kitchen door, Rick stopped smiling. He strode back to the living room and said, "Now that he knows what we're doing, we gotta turn up the heat on Dupré. But the thing is, we got zilch on him at the moment, so we have to come up with something real quick."

His brother was unusually reticent and did not respond.

"Hey, did you hear what I just said?"

A.J. finally looked up at him from his chair. "You weren't sloppy—I was."

"What?"

"If I had listened to you and agreed to ride in your truck, Dupré wouldn't have spotted us tailing him."

Before leaving home that morning, the brothers had debated which vehicle they should choose, and A.J. had been adamant that they should take his. Although they had not talked about it since then, they individually had arrived at the same conclusion that Dupré must have seen A.J.'s Camaro parked right next to his Mercedes Benz at their mother's home the night before, and that he had recognized it parked near Lana's home.

"We don't know that for sure," said Rick with little conviction.

"Yes, we do. And if I hadn't been so stubborn, none of this would have happened; we wouldn't have been hurt, and Mrs. Young wouldn't have been in imminent danger."

"If Dupré was an average Joe, maybe, but he's a crook with underworld connections. I'm sure he's more vigilant than ordinary people and would have noticed us no matter whose car we drove because we were both too cocky and got too close to him during the tail."

A.J. was too upset to hear his brother. "If something happens to Mrs. Young, I…"

"Hey, stop it right now!" Rick yelled, startling his brother into silence. "We can't change what's already happened. And how many times have I told you that you can't afford to waste time second-guessing yourself in a situation like this, huh? All we need to know at the moment is, we have only little time to stop the bastard from marrying Lana."

A.J. was quiet but, at least, Rick got his attention.

"And what I need for this job is a damn good investigation partner, not a whiny little baby who wants to be held and comforted—I don't have time for that, or in-depth introspection."

A.J. flinched at Rick's cutting criticism but did not utter a word.

"So, are you in or what?"

After a beat, A.J. said softly but firmly, "Yeah, I'm in."

"Good," Rick grinned. "And don't forget that I promised Mom we'd nail Dupré. Don't make a liar outa me."

"All right." A.J. grinned back. "Hey, Rick?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for the pep talk."

Rick shrugged. "Sure. Well, time's a-wastin'—let's take care of business."


	6. Chapter 6

The following morning the Simon brothers hit Lt. Longo's jurisdiction again but not to see him. Instead, they visited the local gyms one by one looking for any information on Gary Chapman and his associates. They were convinced the men who had jumped them were bodybuilders who worked out regularly.

At the third gym, one of the employees recognized Chapman when the brothers showed him the mug shot.

"Oh, yeah. Gary's a regular here. I haven't seen him the last few days though."

"Does he have workout buddies that you know of?" asked Rick.

"Yeah, he does." The clerk stared into space thinking. "Jesse and Ansel. I haven't seen them for a couple of days either."

"Is there anyone who may know where we can find any of those people?"

"Yeah. Holly and Jesse used to be an item, and they're still close."

"Holly who?"

"Holly Grant."

"Is she here today?"

"Yeah, she's an aerobics instructor. She's downstairs teaching her class."

Rick and A.J. did not mind waiting while watching a dozen or so women in leotards and tights working out. Although the doors were closed, they could hear the up-tempo music blaring, Holly's voice demanding her class raise their knees higher, faster.

Ten, fifteen minutes later, the music stopped, and the women began filing out of the room. Being the instructor, Holly remained inside clearing the room for the next activity.

As she saw the brothers walking up to her, her eyebrow arched.

"Hi there." She offered them a brief smile. "If you want to bulk up so you'll be able to whop whoever did that to you, you're in a wrong place. But if you don't mind joining a group of women prancing in skimpy outfits, you're welcome to sign up for my class."

"Nah, I don't look so hot in a leotard." Rick grinned. "By the way, I'm Rick, this is my brother, A.J. We're looking for some information on your friend, Jesse. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"

She studied their faces for a moment. "Did he beat you guys up? Is that why you're looking for him?"

"No, we're not accusing him for anything, miss," said A.J. though he and Rick suspected Jesse could well be one of the goon brigade members. "Actually, we're looking for Gary Chapman. I hear he and Jesse work out together. Do you know him by any chance?"

Holly nodded. "Sure, but what do you really wanna know? About Jesse, or Gary?"

"A little bit of both, I guess." Rick replied. "What's Jesse's last name, for instance?"

"Vogel."

"Do you know how to get in touch with him so we can ask him where to look for Gary?"

"Ever since he moved out of my apartment about a month ago, Jesse's been couch surfing. Last I heard, he and Gary were both crashing at Guy's."

"Who's Guy? What's his full name?"

"Guy Petrovich. He's a personal trainer and an old friend of Ansel's. Ansel often works out with Gary and Jesse and introduced Guy to them."

_And Guy makes four_, Rick grinned inwardly.

"Could you possibly find Guy's home address?" asked A.J. "Since he's an employee of this gym, I assume you may be able to look up the information."

Holly looked at the Simons warily.

"You don't have to worry about Gary or Jesse's safety if that's what you're concerned about," said Rick with a self-deprecating smile. "As you can see, just about anyone can beat us up."

Holly laughed out loud. "Oh, I'm not worried about that. But why are you looking for him?"

"We're hoping he'll be able to shed some light on a certain individual's background," replied A.J.

Crinkling her nose, she said, "Okay, let me get this straight—you're looking for Jesse or Gary to get some information on someone else. Is that right?"

"That's about the size of it." Rick nodded.

"You still haven't answered my question: why? Are you guys private eyes or something?"

"We're doing this for our mother," A.J. replied, being truthful but revealing as little as possible.

"For your mom? Are you looking for her old flame?"

"She's doing this for her dear friend."

The convoluted explanation seemed to start wearing her down.

"All right," she sighed signaling her capitulation. "Let's see what I can do for you—and for your mom."

_**S&S S&S**_

A.J. looked up at the apartment building he and Rick were about to enter and said, "Well, this place seems so much nicer than Chapman's last known address."

He sounded upbeat, but Rick knew he and his brother both had the same nagging doubt on their minds: this was too easy. Dupré had been slick as a greased pig, evading their surveillance, setting them up for a shellacking on the fly. Could this be another set-up, or a red herring? They were wary, and yet, they had no other choice but to pursue this lead for now.

The brothers climbed the stairs to the third floor and looked for Room 3128. They did not expect to find Jesse, or his buddies there; they assumed the foursome was in hiding based on the information that they had not been seen for a few days.

But what were they hiding from? Rick and A.J. had encountered them only the day before. And how did they cross the Frenchman's path?

The Simon brothers were hoping to find some tangible lead to continue their probe into Dupré's past.

It was not yet ten o'clock, and the apartment building had very little comings and goings. They figured most of the residents were at work or school.

Guy Petrovich's apartment unit was situated in the middle of the third floor. Before they got there, the Simons spotted one of the apartment dwellers and started asking a question regarding the occupant in 3128, but the Asian woman simply screamed, "No English, no English," and scurried away.

"That went well," said Rick, huffing with frustration. "If you ever…"

A.J. shushed him by placing his index finger on his lips and pointed at the door of Room 3128—it was slightly ajar.

When they took a quick glance inside, they saw a sign of disturbance.

The brothers simultaneously drew their firearms from the holsters and flanked the door.

Rick raised his open hand to let his brother know they were going in on the count of five and started to count down silently with his fingers.

_Four, three, two, one_…

He kicked the door in at the count of five, rushed into the room and crisply turned ninety degrees to his right gripping his Magnum in both hands.

A.J. was right behind him and pointed his gun to his left.

The room was vacant and showed obvious signs of struggle: upturned chairs, magazines and books strewn on the floor, a broken vase.

Rick pointed towards the bedrooms. A.J. nodded and followed him. They opened each door for inspection—hallway closet, bathroom, spare bedroom…

The master bedroom was at the end of the hallway, and its door was not closed all the way.

Rick pushed it in only a few inches and waited. Nothing happened, and he swung open the door while he and A.J. had their guns at the ready.

A still figure lay on the bed. The normal skin tone had been replaced by a ghastly, pale yellowish hue. He was apparently deader than a doornail.

Without taking a good look at his face, the Simons could identify him by his raven hair.

"Gary Chapman." A.J. sounded incredulous.

The dead thug had a phone cord tightly wrapped around his neck and tiny, red, pinpoint marks—petechial hemorrhages—around his eyes and on his jaw.

Nothing seemed to be out of place in the bedroom. The deadly altercation obviously had taken place in the living room, and whoever the killer was, he had posed the body in the bedroom.

"Let's get the hell out." Rick whispered. "Somethin' is wrong here."

It was a whopper of an understatement; A.J. also felt his internal alarm going off.

They hastily left the bedroom and made a beeline for the door.

As they were putting their guns in the holsters, a couple of police officers, guns drawn, blocked the entrance and yelled, "This is the police! Drop your weapons!"

Raising his hands, Rick said, "Wait a minute. We're…"

"I said, drop your weapons!" One of the cops screamed. He was jumpy and appeared ready to pull the trigger of his service revolver.

"All right, all right!"

Rick and A.J. slowly reached for their guns and placed them on the floor.

"Now turn around! Legs apart, hands behind your head!"

The Simons followed the order. The officers frisked them, confiscated their firearms then cuffed their hands behind their backs.

Rick and A.J. helplessly watched one of the cops walking down the hallway and entering the master bedroom. A few seconds later, they heard him radioing to call for a backup, or a forensic team, or both.

The officer, who stayed in the living room, shoved them against the kitchen counter and held them at gunpoint.


	7. Chapter 7

Several more police officer arrived at the crime scene in a matter of minutes. Around the time the forensic showed up, the Simon brothers were taken to the precinct they had been to only the day before.

They were booked and lodged in two separate interview rooms for questioning.

"No, I don't need a lawyer 'cause I got nothing to hide," said Rick to the detectives in the room at the beginning of the interrogation interrupting the Mirandizing procedure.

"You know, prisons are full of men who claim to be innocent." One of the interviewers jeered then resumed to recite the rest of the Miranda rights.

"We got there only a few minutes before Officers Vasquez and O'Keeffe arrived. Ask the employees at the gym I told you about. Chapman had been dead for quite some time when we found him." A.J. said in the other room. He too waived his rights.

"How do you know that? Are you a forensic expert? Or, do you know something about his death that we don't know?"

The plain-clothes detectives in the room gave him an icy stare.

The interrogation went on for hours, and neither side was willing to back down. The Simons went over the same story numerous times, rehashing, elaborating but never deviating from the original statement despite the third degree from the detectives.

Sensing that they were going nowhere, the interviewers were about to give up on browbeating a confession out of Rick and place him in a holding cell when Lt. Longo walked into the room unannounced.

Without preamble, he told his colleagues, "Let him go."

The detectives on the interrogation team naturally started to voice their dissent, but he cut them off. "For now, everything the Simons say checks out, and there's so little evidence the D.A.'s office is reluctant to bring any charges."

Longo stared down at Rick and growled, "I told you to stay out of trouble and my jurisdiction, Simon."

"As I recall, the exact wording was, 'Whatever you do, don't get beaten up in my jurisdiction next time.'"

Rick instantly regretted he'd shot his mouth off—it clearly ticked off Longo royally.

"Get out!" His face flushed with anger, the detective screamed. "Get the hell out before I do something I might regret later!"

"Hey, I'm more than happy to oblige, but where's my brother?"

A.J. was sitting alone in a holding cell, looking lost and forlorn. When he saw Rick and Longo approaching, he sprang to his feet, and he clung to the iron bars and yelped like a stray dog in a cage at a local animal shelter.

"Rick!"

"It's okay, A.J. We're free to go."

Longo turned his head and glowered at Rick. "You're not exactly scot-free, Simon. We just don't have enough to hold you is all."

Unlocking the door and letting A.J. out of the cell, he said, "You're still under suspicion and being vigorously investigated, so don't even think about leaving town."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Lieutenant," A.J. said earnestly. "We have our own investigation on our hands."

The brothers signed their legal names on the log sheet to get their personal belongings back on their way out and left the police station as quickly as possible, fearing that the D.A.'s office might change its mind.

Rick called Carlos and asked him to drive them back to his Power Wagon. While waiting for his ride, he asked A.J., "Did you learn anything new from the cops? Like how conveniently they showed up at the apartment just as we got there, or who called them for whatever the reason in the first place?"

"I didn't ask, and they didn't say anything about that."

Rick shrugged. "It doesn't matter—I did ask, but they didn't answer my question. Did you hear anything that might be relevant to our case though?"

"Yup. Did they tell you Petrovich doesn't live in that apartment complex anymore?"

"Yeah…"

"And that he moved out of the unit over four months ago?"

"Four months ago?" Rick cocked his head thinking. "Didn't Holly say Jesse moved out of her place a month ago, and the last couch he landed on was Petrovich's?"

"Exactly," said A.J. nodding his head. "It is possible that Petrovich hasn't gotten around to report the change of address to his employer, but I have a hunch that Holly knows where her ex-boyfriend is, or how to get in touch with him since they're supposed to be still close."

"You think this is another set-up to get us derailed from our investigation?"

"I do though I don't know the exact nature of Holly's involvement, or how much she knows what's going on."

"Did you say so to the cops during the questioning?"

A.J. grinned like a little rascal who was up to some mischief. "If she's an unwitting accomplice and realizes she got entangled in a murder investigation, she might get scared and lead us to someone who got her involved. The last thing I want to do is sic the police on her."

Rick regarded his brother with an approving smile. "And people often think you don't have a devious bone in your body."

"Hey, I've been learning from the master since the day I was born," A.J. smirked and, as a result, received a playful slap on the back of his head.

_**S&S S&S**_

Back at the twenty-four-hour gym where Holly worked, Rick parked his pickup some fifty feet away from the entrance. He and A.J. were hoping she was still at work so that they would be able to tail her at the end of her shift.

They were also mindful of their surroundings to make sure they were not under the police surveillance. They had not detected any suspicious vehicle shadowing them as of yet. And they had checked out the pickup and found no tracking device.

Around 4:30, Holly came out of the gym as a couple of patrons with gym bags went in. She got in her Toyota Tercel and sped off.

"She seems to be in a hurry," remarked A.J. "I wonder if she has an appointment with someone."

"Very likely," said Rick pulling out of the parking lot. "But not with her pedicurist or hairdresser, I bet."

She drove mere two or three miles before parking her vehicle in front of a bistro. She went straight to one of the outside tables and sat across from a man the brothers recognized as one of the four muscles.

"That's gotta be Jesse Vogel," said Rick sitting tight in the driver seat of his truck that was parked a few cars behind Holly's little car.

Although he and A.J. could not hear what she was saying, she appeared to be tearing right into Vogel, skipping the niceties.

"Looks like she's quite upset to put it mildly. I suppose Vogel is the one who asked her to lie to us." A.J. said observing the couple. "But I wonder who killed Chapman and why."

A waiter came up to Holly and Vogel's table to take her order, but she dismissed him with a couple of shakes of her head while her ex was silently sipping coffee—presumably—from his mug.

After the waiter left the table, Holly picked up where she'd left off. A few minutes later, she burst into tears.

Unlike his ex-girlfriend, Vogel was cool, collected and standoffish. He let her cry and made no attempt to comfort or apologize to her.

Her crying fit eventually subsided to sniffles, and Vogel sat there unmoved as if he were made of granite.

Fed up with his uncooperative, uncaring attitude, she abruptly stood up from her chair and grabbed her purse. Before she left, she picked up a small ceramic receptacle for packets of sugar and hurled it at him. He did not even dodge and let it bounce on his beefy chest. The ceramic bowl hit the sidewalk breaking into pieces and sending the little packets of sugar all around him.

She started crying again and ran to her Toyota. She angrily threw her purse inside and took off with a jackrabbit start while he was still sitting at the table impassively.

Rick and A.J. did not budge, calmly waiting for Vogel to make a move. They did not have to wait for long—in a couple of minutes, he rose from his seat and went inside the bistro.

They jumped out of the pickup as soon as he closed the door behind him.

"I'll go in," said Rick. "Just in case he slips out, keep an eye out on the entrance."

"All right."

Leaving A.J. near the main door, Rick briskly walked into the eatery. He had a pair of sunglasses on but without his favorite hat to avoid easy detection.

He looked around like any dining guest trying to find a table or the wait staff. It was not yet five, and only a few tables were occupied. Vogel was nowhere in sight.

He looked for the sign for the restroom and found it towards the back, but there was something more on the sign: Restrooms & Lounge.

Suddenly, he broke into a run but made a brief stop to check the men's room and found it empty. At the end of a narrow passageway was a lounge with a bar counter and several rows of booths. There was a separate entrance that opened to a street that ran parallel to the one his pickup was parked on.

Rick ran through the lounge and out of the door just in time to see a jeep, maybe a Wrangler, speeding off.

Cursing aloud, he sprinted back to the bistro's entrance.

"Rick, what happened?" A.J. asked, but he could tell something had gone awry by his brother's demeanor.

"He got away—he had his car parked on the street behind this one."

"Damn! Did you get a partial license plate number?"

Rick shook his head. "No, but it doesn't really matter. Crooks usually don't have legit driver licenses and vehicle registrations."

A.J. punched the door panel out of frustration forgetting about his raw, swollen knuckles—a little reminder of the previous day's brawl.

Watching his brother grimacing in pain, Rick asked, "So what now?"

A.J., clutching his achy hand against his chest, managed to utter breathlessly, "Well, in old whodunits and film noir, they often say, '_cherchez la femme_.'"


	8. Chapter 8

Holly Grant was still an emotional mess when she returned to her apartment building although it had been almost an hour since the meeting with Jesse at the bistro. She had been driving around aimlessly in order to get her bearings without success. Her hand shook as she pressed the buttons on the security panel to get inside.

While waiting for the elevator car to arrive, she couldn't help but think back on what had happened only a few hours earlier.

A couple of cops showing up at her workplace had been a surprise, but what they had told her terrified her.

Gary was dead. _No, he's been murdered_, she mentally corrected herself.

She knew the nosy brothers had nothing to do with his death—she just knew. And because she had been so scared—still was—she hadn't been able to tell the detectives that Jesse had instructed her to send the odd brothers to Guy's old apartment if they should come looking for him or his buddies.

True, Guy's personal file still showed his former address on the record, but she knew how to contact him and Jesse. She was too scared to think what would happen if the police should find out what she had done for her ex-boyfriend, and what exactly he and his buddies had been up to.

Jesse's silence, nevertheless, had spoken volumes and upset her most. He hadn't denied any involvement in Gary's death or claimed his innocence, which most people would do if they were innocent.

With her thoughts scattered in all directions, she stepped out of the elevator when it reached her floor.

"Hi, Holly."

A voice from behind jolted her. She spun around jerkily and saw the two brothers, who had shown up at the gym, standing by the elevator door, leaning against the wall.

"Remember us?"

One of them with a hat—_Rick_, she recalled—said nonchalantly like he was talking about the weather.

"What do you think you're doing here?" She snapped, her voice shaking terribly with fear and panic.

"You look surprised. Disappointed we're not cooling our heels in jail?"

"I don't know what you're…"

"Hey, cut the crap, darlin'." Rick cut her off and grabbed her wrist to pull her closer. "We need to talk, and we want straight answers this time."

"Get your filthy hands off me!" Holly hissed. "Or I'm gonna call the cops."

"Are ya? Go right ahead then." He called her bluff and smirked.

He let go of her wrist and crossed his arms across his chest. "When they get here, be sure to tell 'em you lied to us like Jesse asked you to. And don't waste your breath denying it—I saw you two at that bistro near the gym only a while ago. I'm sure the waiter remembers you making a scene, breaking stuff…"

She turned pale and stood still as if she had grown roots.

"Miss… Holly. May I call you Holly?" A.J. spoke for the first time. "We know you're an innocent bystander in Gary Chapman's case just like we are. I suppose the police told you he's been murdered."

She saw the blond half of the pair looking her in the face. He was polite and appeared compassionate.

"The police arrived just moments after we found Gary's body at Guy Petrovich's former residence but couldn't detain us because there isn't enough evidence to hold us, which isn't surprising at all since we got nothing to do with his death, but if they realize you aided one of the suspects by withholding a key piece of information, you'll be in a world of trouble. I assume you know that much already."

"Is he…?" Holly cleared her throat. "Is Jesse one of the suspects?"

A.J. could tell she was wavering. This 'good cop/bad cop' routine was working better than he and Rick had expected.

"If he's not at the moment, he will be as soon as the police confirm the fact that he's one of Chapman's known associates. Let us help you clear your name. For your information, we really are private investigators."

She appeared alarmed when she learned the brothers' occupation.

"We're not working for the police," said A.J. quickly in order to calm her down. "As I said, we can help you if you are willing to help us first. We do need your full cooperation to solve this case though—no more lies and deception. You must tell us what you know truthfully."

He took a deep breath. "So, are you going to help us? And yourself?"

It did not take her long to cave in. She nodded with a ragged sigh.

"Thank you," said A.J., gently placing his hand on her shoulder.

She wordlessly guided the brothers into her apartment unit although they knew which one was hers—she was listed in the phone book. It was a modest home that a young woman with a modest income could afford.

Or, so it seemed on the surface.

A.J. was astounded to find the chair he was about to sit on was an antique Chippendale armchair. If it were genuine, it would cost more than Holly's annual pay. On top of that, it was one of a matching pair.

Stunned beyond words, he looked around. He saw a Tiffany lamp with a leaded glass shade circa 1920, a museum-quality painting, framed lithographs, which were quite possibly by Francisco de Goya…

"What's wrong, A.J.?"

He hardly heard Rick's question and said, "Holly, where did you get these antique items?"

She looked at him uncomprehendingly. "Huh? You mean those chairs?"

"Yes. And the oil painting, lithograph prints, Tiffany lamp, writing desk…"

"They're not mine; they're Jesse's…well, kind of. He couldn't take them with him when he moved out 'cause he didn't have a place of his own."

Rick caught on quickly and asked, "Do you have any idea how valuable they are?"

She shook her head and turned her gaze to A.J., hoping he could shed some light on the subject.

"Provided they are authentic, and I believe they are, we wouldn't be able to buy that painting on the wall if we pooled our annual salaries together."

Holly looked more astonished than his brother did.

"What did Jesse tell you about them?" asked Rick. "Where and how did he get such expensive stuff?"

She was still in shock, and it took her a few moments to pull herself together. "Um… He said he was keeping them for his friend that runs some antique shop 'cause there's no room at the store and the storage."

"Antique shop? Do you remember the name?" said Rick.

"No, I don't re…"

"Could it be _Galerie des Antiques San Diego__?_" asked A.J., his heart beating a little faster in excitement.

She frowned rolling out the name a couple of times. "Well, it could be…"

The brothers were energized anew to find an unexpected piece of the puzzle.

"Do you know the shop owner, Alain Dupré? Have you met him?" Rick asked eagerly.

"No. He's more like a nodding acquaintance of Jesse's. As far as I know, Guy introduced him to his trainees at the gym. They're French, you know, Guy and the shop owner."

That was news to Rick and A.J. for they had assumed Guy Petrovich was a Russian American. They instantly recalled Dupré's phone conversation at Lana's guesthouse. _Was it Petrovich he was talking to?_

"How long have you had these collectibles in your apartment?" A.J. asked.

"Not too long. Jesse brought them here a week or two before he moved out."

"Has he brought other pieces of furniture or artworks here in the past?"

"Sure, several times. He'd usually take them back to the store within a month or so, and that's why I didn't think much of it."

"What kind of stuff did he bring here? Can you be more specific?" said Rick.

Holly stared into space as she tried to recall the detail. "Let's see… A highboy with a fancy carving on top…"

"Cornice."

"What?"

"The decorative molding that you mentioned—it's called cornice," informed A.J.

"Well, thank you very much for that interesting and useful piece of information," said Rick sarcastically with an eye roll then urged Holly to continue. "What else?"

"More paintings—oil and watercolor—and prints, sketches, all sorts of furniture, wood and ivory carvings… There were more, but I can't remember them all right now."

"Don't worry about it. That's more than enough." Rick smiled appreciatively.

"I guess you guys wanna know where Guy lives, huh?"

The brothers dutifully took the information from Holly although they now had a new angle to explore in their pursuit.

After several more minutes of questioning, they decided to wrap it up.

"Thank you so much, Holly. You've been very helpful," said A.J. with a smile.

Rick nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you did great, but let me give you a piece of advice."

"What's that?" She looked up at him quizzically.

"If I were you, I'd find some other place to stay for a while until the whole thing blows over."

"You think I'm in danger?" Holly asked, her voice cracking with tension.

He did not want to make her scared any more than she was now, but she also deserved to know what kind of situation she was in.

"I'm sure Jesse and his gang know by now that you talked to the police and know Chapman's dead. And they also know you can implicate your ex-boyfriend if you tell the cops he asked you to lie to us."

"What are you saying? You think he's going to kill me?"

Rick shrugged. "You know him better than I do, but think about it—Chapman was supposed to be his pal, wasn't he?"

She fell silent with naked fear in her eyes. Her body started to tremble all over again.

"Listen, Holly. It's just a precaution to ensure your safety," said A.J. calmly to soothe her raw nerve. "If you'd like, we can wait here while you pack your bags and give you a ride to the airport, Amtrak station, bus depot, or wherever you choose. Would you like that?"

After a few seconds, she nodded her head. "Yes," she whispered huskily.

"Great!" He flashed a boyish smile. "You don't have to tell us where you're going, but in case you'd like to check in with us while you're away, I'll give you my business card."

He took out one of his cards from his wallet.

"You can call us anytime, any day. Okay?"

"I have another piece of advice for ya," said Rick. He looked her in the eye. "You've already broken up with Jesse and kicked him out. Why don't you make good on your word and keep this breakup permanent?"

Holly thanked the Simons and trudged to her bedroom to pack her suitcase.


	9. Chapter 9

Rick and A.J. not only drove Holly to the nearest Amtrak station but also waited until she boarded her train. When it finally shoved off, it was past seven thirty.

Returning to Rick's Power Wagon, they briefly discussed their plan and went straight to the police station they frequented.

Unfortunately, Susie was out on patrol, and Barbara was off.

"Oh, all right. What about Chloe? Is she in tonight?" A.J. was tenacious and asked the officer at the reception desk.

The uniform nodded. "Yeah, she is. Let me check real quick to see if she's available."

He picked up the phone receiver, spoke several short words, bobbed his head a couple of times and hung up—all in less than fifteen seconds.

He gave A.J. a big grin and said with a wink, "You're in luck. Go right in—she's at your disposal, as she puts it."

The brothers signed in and received their ID badges.

"Who's Chloe?" Rick asked out of curiosity as he and his brother were walking away from the reception area.

"She's a new officer transferred from another precinct. I met her at the tennis court a while back. We sometimes play mixed doubles with my tennis buddies."

"Why didn't you tell me that till now?"

A.J. only shrugged.

Rick did not need the answer once he took a good look at Officer Chloe Bragg at her desk; she had a beautiful heart-shaped face, honey blonde hair, sapphire-blue eyes and sensual feminine curves that a bulky uniform could not hide. She had the kind of body that begged to be seen and adored, preferably without clothing.

"Oh my God! What happened to you, A.J.?"

She was clearly upset when she saw her tennis partner's face.

"Occupational hazard. Nothing serious though," he grinned. "Chloe, this is my brother, Rick."

She turned her gaze to the older Simon as if she hadn't noticed him before. She stared at him for a beat or two then smiled knowingly and said, "Hi, Rick. I feel like I know you already."

"You oughtta take whatever A.J. told you about me with a grain of salt—he has what I call little brother complex."

"I do not!"

Chloe started laughing. "Your reputation precedes you, Rick. And it's not just A.J.—my fellow officers and the brass also got some really interesting Rick Simon stories to tell. You're quite famous around here."

"Infamous, you mean," said A.J., looking smug.

"Potato, po-TAH-to," Rick dismissed his brother's derisive remark. "But we're not here to discuss my celebrity status, are we, little brother?"

"Well, I suppose you're looking for some information, but I'm kind of new and have very little wiggle room if you know what I mean," said she. "By the way, what did you do to Susie? She was grumbling about you guys after she received a phone call from some detective, Lt. Longo I believe, at another precinct."

"Just a slight misunderstanding," said Rick poker-faced. "And we're not gonna ask you much; it's no more than public information. We want the list of recent burglary cases where antique collectibles were stolen."

Chloe had been anticipating something outrageous from the Rick Simon, and his innocuous request was almost a letdown.

"If you could throw in some extras like pictures of the stolen goods, that'd be great. Who knows, maybe we can crack these cases for you."

"Okay, let's see what I can do for you." She rose to her feet. "I'll be back shortly. Don't touch anything that doesn't belong to you."

"Why would I?" Rick said with feigned innocence.

As Officer Bragg walked away from her desk rolling her eyes, he openly ogled her swaying hips and sighed in admiration. "There goes the future Mrs. Rick Simon."

"Forget it, Rick. She has a fiancé, another police officer."

"But you said you…"

"I said she and I play tennis from time to time, yes. It's because her future husband has never seen or held a tennis racket in his life, and he's only interested in spectator sports. She and I are just friends, Rick, nothing more."

"Just friends…"

"Uh-huh. It is possible to form a platonic relationship with an opposite sex, you know, even with someone as lovely as Chloe."

Rick stared at A.J. in disbelief and shook his head. "Sometimes I really worry about you, kid."

_**S&S S&S**_

Rick and A.J. returned home armed with a handful of case files after picking up Marlowe at their mother's. They settled on the couch with a bottle of beer in one hand, several folders in the other.

"I was hopin' we could get more files," said Rick as he opened the first folder, scratching Marlowe's head absentmindedly. The dog sighed contently and rested his chin on his lap.

"I'm sure there are other open cases in other jurisdictions, but for now, this could be a good starting point."

They were convinced that Dupré was a criminal, but they'd had no idea what kind of criminal activities he was engaged in until they had spoken with Holly.

Only two files contained the photographs of the stolen items: jewelry, statuette, vases, and a couple of fur coats. The brothers had not seen them at Holly's apartment. The other files had brief descriptions of the valuables reported missing—again, no match.

They were disappointed but not discouraged. They were convinced Mrs. Young's fiancé had been moving the stolen goods, quite possibly organizing a string of burglaries with Guy.

"I don't suppose Dupré's dumb enough to display or sell the hot items at his store," said Rick.

"Probably not. Obviously he stashes some of the loot, the big, clunky kind, away from the shop like Holly's place and fences it as quickly as possible. Which means he has an established underground network."

"And those who temporarily store the stuff for their friends are none the wiser."

A.J. nodded. "And I have a feeling that Dupré carefully handpicks them to eliminate the well-informed and select the ones who don't keep up with the current events and local news. And apartments are perfect to park the hot stuff because people are always moving in and out, so no one would think twice if they saw a moving van and its crew carrying furniture and other household items.

"Now with Holly involved in the Chapman case, he's most likely to remove the stolen goods out of her apartment. Without any hard evidence, there's only heresy against him. Even if the police pick up the scent of his criminal activities, by the time they can build a case to indict him, he'll be out of the country."

"Yeah. But now I'm really confused—why does he want to marry Lana? Sure, she's worth millions, but so is he if he and his associates have made off with all these valuables. He's in a lucrative business, illegal but lucrative to say the least."

"I know what you mean. No one would object to gaining several million dollars, but domesticity and a life of crime don't exactly go hand-in-hand. Taking a wife is a considerable liability in his trade, I would imagine."

"I still can't understand why he picked Lana though. I mean, there are other rich, old ladies who are more, uh, attractive, you know what I mean?" Rick saw his brother raise his eyebrow but ignored it. "Think about it for a moment—Dupré is a lady killer. You said so yourself. Sure, Lana's a better catch than other, ordinary widows with average incomes, but he can do much better. Why is he willing to settle for a skinny old lady who looks older than him? And I don't think it's true love we're dealing here."

"I know she's not your type; you always go for voluptuous ladies, like those in Renoir nude paintings." A.J. held up his hand to keep his brother from speaking up. "Having said that, however, I do agree with you that there's something fishy about his engagement. There must be something in it for him—something we've overlooked."

They tried to recall every bit of information on Dupré that they had gathered.

"Now, how did he and Lana meet?" asked Rick. "I'm sure she or Mom mentioned it, but I kinda checked out during the dinner the other night."

"You and me both," said A.J. chuckling. "But I do remember Mrs. Young telling us her meeting with him was preordained."

"Preordained? Oh, puh-lease," muttered Rick shaking his head. "What makes her think it was fate?"

"Give me a moment. Let's see, she called him a few months ago to see if he'd be able to fix an antique desk or knew someone who can."

"Antique desk?" Rick asked sharply.

"Yes. Her husband purchased it from Dupré's shop shortly before his passing, and that's why she decided to give him a call first. It was damaged when…"

A.J. suddenly broke off, his eyes wide.

"What?" Rick asked impatiently.

"…when someone broke into her home around last Christmas."

The brothers stared at each other for a moment trying to make sense out of it.

"Anything stolen?"

"Yes, but only the presents under the Christmas tree, nothing else, but the burglar, or burglars, tipped the desk upside down and, in the process, damaged it," replied A.J. "Her husband passed away shortly after Christmas, so she was too preoccupied to repair it right away."

"Her husband was killed in a car accident, right?"

"Uh-huh. He was riding a cab home when the driver had a massive heart attack. The cab crossed the centerline and collided head-on with an oncoming semi."

Rick grimaced at the thought of the gruesome scene. "I guess that rules out a hit staged as an accident."

"Right, it was just a horrific, very unfortunate accident."

"Okay then, let's go back to the break-in. I know some crooks make a career out of stealing Christmas gifts, but don't you think it's downright stupid not to look for something more valuable at a place like Lana's? She's loaded and must have expensive trinkets and lots of cash stashed somewhere at home."

"I'm with you on that one. As far as I can remember, Mr. and Mrs. Young were asleep upstairs at the time, but whoever burglarized their home could have taken silverware, electronics, antique furniture such as the damaged desk… In other words, this stands out among other burglary cases we have here in these folders."

"And yet, I have this gut feeling Dupré and his gang are the guilty ones here."

A.J. nodded his head. "So do I. They always seem to know which home to hit and what to steal. Although there were obvious signs that he had gone through the usual places to hide valuables like drawers and cabinets, the thief that burglarized the Young residence swooped down on the presents and showed no interest in anything else as if he knew exactly what he was looking for. But then again, it may be because Mr. Young woke up and startled him before he could steal anything else."

"So, what was he looking for?" Rick wondered aloud. "Whatever it may be, he probably didn't get it, and I bet my bottom dollar he popped the question so he'd be able to have easy access to Lana's place to keep lookin'."

"That makes sense," said A.J., furrowing his brow. "And if our assumption is correct, that means Mrs. Young's in a more precarious situation than we imagined."

"Yeah, I hate to think what's gonna happen to her if and when Dupré finds what he wants." Rick sounded worried but not for long. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, "What if we find what he wants for him?"

A.J. pondered his brother's suggestion only for a moment and broke into a grin. "Sounds like a plan. Dupré may have a keen eye for expensive trinkets, but I'm pretty sure his con game IQ isn't in the same league as yours."

"Hey, I'm putting my exceptional talent to good use at least," said Rick grinning back. "Okay, now let's iron out some kinks, shall we?"

He rubbed his hands together like a poker player anticipating a big payout on his hand of royal flush.


	10. Chapter 10

Alain Dupré was feeling great this morning. _Et pourquoi pas?_ The weather was nice, which was not that unusual, the morning traffic had been lighter than most Saturdays, and the next shipment of the stolen goods was all packed up and ready to go.

He was giving his usual sales pitch to a couple of out-of-towners—their T-shirts, one advertising San Diego Zoo, the other, SeaWorld, were dead giveaways—when he saw his fiancée breeze into his store with Cecilia Simon.

He quickly motioned to one of his employees on the floor to take over his place and briskly walked up to the women to greet them with open arms and a broad smile.

"_Ma chérie_," murmured he as he took and softly pressed his lips on Lana's hand. "What a pleasant surprise! To what do I owe this honor?"

Her cheeks flushed in pink, but she was not being coy. She was thrilled to be seen by others while such a dashing, cultured man like Alain was showering her with affection.

"Oh, we were just in the neighborhood and wanted to say, 'hi.' And Ceci wants to call her boys. Would you mind if she uses your phone, dear?"

"Not at all. What a silly question!" He then said to Cecilia, "The phone is back there at the counter. Here, I will show you where it is, _Mme._ Simon."

"Why, thank you!"

The petite woman offered him a warm smile, which he found appealing; however, it was not the reason that he wanted to accompany her to the phone.

He knew her sons had been sticking their noses where they didn't belong, so he had let them know he was aware of their meddling. They were either too dumb or too stubborn to get his drift though his men had delivered a not-too-subtle message. To his chagrin, his attempt to deter their investigation by implicating them in Gary Chapman's murder had had dismal success.

He did not think much of the fact that Cecilia Simon seemed unaware or unconcerned that her sons had taken a sound beating because he and his own mother had not had a normal mother-son relationship. He had run away from his abusive home at fourteen, and the last glimpse of her alcohol-ravaged face had been at her funeral almost forty-five years ago.

"Here it is, Madame. Is there anything else you need?"

She shook her head with a smile and picked up the phone receiver.

He took a few steps away from the counter to give her a false sense of privacy. As Lana kept prattling on about their upcoming trip to Paris, he occasionally and dutifully uttered 'uh-huh-s' and '_oui, chouchoute_-s' while keeping his ears open to the one-way phone conversation.

"Oh, hi, honey. It's me. I just wanted to make sure you got the envelope I left at your office as you requested."

_Envelope? What envelope, and what's it for?_ Dupré's ears perked up.

"That's good. Uh-huh… Oh, really?"

There was a long period of silence as Cecilia intently listened to her son on the other end of the line driving Dupré up the wall with suspense.

"Um, I'm not sure. Let me ask her. Just a moment."

She put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at her friend. "Lana, Rick and A.J. would like to meet us as soon as possible. How soon do you think we can go back to your place?"

_Those dim-witted sons of hers find something? That's impossible!_

"Oh, about an hour and a half, two hours at the most," said Lana.

Cecilia was back on the phone again. "Lana has an appointment with her tailor and seamstress to make some adjustments on her dress, but we should be able to meet you there in two hours."

After terminating her call, Cecilia smiled at Lana. "All right, dear, let's get going—we have a busy schedule!"

"What's this meeting about?"

Dupré secretly praised Lana for asking the question he wanted answered.

"Oh, I don't know. Rick didn't say, but he did say it's very important. And he sounded excited."

_Could it be?_ He barely kept himself from breaking into a grin. The day was shaping up to be a whole lot better than he'd expected.

Cecilia placed her hand on Lana's arm to get her going again. As she did so, she said to Dupré, "Thank you so much for letting me use your phone, Alain."

"_De rien, Mme._ Simon. Lana's friend is mine as well. And please send my regards to your wonderful sons."

He kept a saccharine-sweet smile on his face until the two women left his store. Lana took a few backward glances wiggling her fingers to prolong her good-bye. _How does a saying go…? There's no fool like an old fool? Yes, that's it, _thought Dupré, irritably.

Once they were out of sight, he stopped smiling and immediately went to the back office to start making calls.


	11. Chapter 11

It was twelve thirty in the afternoon. A non-descriptive dark sedan crawled past Lana Young's home in La Jolla. From the passenger seat, Dupré craned his neck and spotted two cars in the driveway: a red Camaro and a Mercedes-Benz sedan, A.J. and Cecilia Simon's.

He nodded his head to let the driver, Guy Petrovich, know it was a go. Petrovich dropped him off near the driveway and drove about half a block more before shifting the gear to park, but he kept the engine idling.

Dupré ambled over to the driveway and, while passing by, placed his hand on the hood of the Chevy. It was still hot.

Instead of going straight to the front door, he trampled the meticulously maintained lawn and manicured flower garden to get to the multi-story bay window. He went behind a mature mimosa tree to avoid being easily spotted by any passersby just in case.

He stood by the expansive window and took a peek inside cautiously. In the far corner of the huge formal living room, where Lana and her late husband had frequently entertained their guests, Rick and A.J. Simon were helping Lana and Cecilia take their seats. The women were now in enormous, overstuffed chairs, and only the top of their heads was visible from where he was, but he could clearly see the brothers' bruised faces and felt like laughing. They sat down on the sofa after the women settled in their chairs.

_Good. They must have just arrived here._ He grinned feeling lucky. He was anxious to see what the inept PIs were about to reveal right then and there, but he ruled out going in through the front door. Rick and A.J. were sitting on the sofa directly facing the ladies and the entrance. He needed a moment of surprise in order to obtain what he felt was rightly his—if that was what the Simons had found.

He swiftly moved to the left side of the house to gain entry through the kitchen door that the housekeeper usually used. Like its yards and gardens, Lana's home was well maintained, and the door opened without the slightest squeak.

Treading softly, he cut across the kitchen that was larger than some restaurants' and sneaked into the formal dining room. It was partially enclosed, but he was now able to eavesdrop the conversation between the Simons and Lana.

After several more moments of exchanging pleasantries, one of the Simon brothers—_the younger one, A.J._—finally uttered the words Dupré had been waiting for.

"We apologize for inconveniencing you when you're extremely busy, Mrs. Young, but we stumbled upon certain items that we'd like to bring to your attention."

Lana said something, but her voice was so low he could not make out individual words.

"Yes, we believe so. Your late husband sent a letter and a small key to our mother last Christmas. It sounded like a riddle, and she didn't know what to make of it."

Dupré's heart began beating faster with great expectations.

Rick nodded. "Yeah, she'd forgotten all about it until we asked about your husband's accident the other day. So we asked her to bring the letter and the key to us this morning." After more muttering from Lana, he continued, "Uh-huh. We think we solved the riddle; we've come to the conclusion that he hid something of great value inside the house."

_What? Where could it be? I searched almost everywhere._

Lana mumbled yet again.

"That's a very good point, Mrs. Young," said A.J. "We assume he either didn't have time to change his will, or he was hesitant to mention it in the will, or maybe both."

More mumbling from Lana.

"Well, we're not sayin' he did something illegal. Our guess is, he found the stuff, knew it was valuable but didn't know what to do with it." Rick leaned forward to gaze directly into her eyes. "And he probably sent the letter to Mom to be on the safe side and to protect you. I'd say he knew right away it was a stolen or illegitimately obtained item and got it in a roundabout way—for all I know, it could've been hidden in the antique desk from your fiancé's store."

Dupré was astonished that the Simons had figured that one out. _And I thought they were dumb as a rock_. He was glad they weren't though. As a matter of fact, their investigative talent could be a boon to him. _So, where the hell is it?_

Lana said something haltingly.

"I don't know, Mrs. Y. Sometimes people forget where they hid their valuables or die without telling their families about the hidden treasures, and the furniture or knickknack that has the money, jewelry, or what have you gets sold or tossed out unwittingly—it happens more often than you may think. If that's the case, no law has been broken therefore no need to contact the police. Maybe your husband wanted to do some research before taking any action. And at this moment, there's no evidence for Allen's wrongdoing."

Dupré was livid hearing Rick mispronounce his name again.

"We requested this meeting because, with your permission, we'd like to search the area where we think the item is hidden, Mrs. Young."

Lana did not answer A.J.'s question, but she must have indicated 'yes' by nodding or in some other way.

Rick stood up from his seat. "Oh, you don't have to show me the way, Mrs. Y. I can figure out where to look by studying this diagram." He then said to his brother, "Why don't you keep the ladies company?"

"With pleasure."

"I'll be right back."

Rick bounded up the stairs and remained upstairs for a few minutes—interminable few minutes as Dupré anxiously waited in the wings.

The two women kept their chat low-keyed with A.J. joining the conversation from time to time, but Dupré paid no mind to their mundane talk.

At long last, Rick Simon reappeared, and Dupré felt a rush of adrenaline. The PI had a security box, not unlike his, and set it on the coffee table as he sat down on the sofa again.

Lana asked something, and he shook his head. "No, I don't, not just yet. A.J. has the key."

A.J. fished out a key from his pocket and handed it to his brother.

A hush fell over everyone around the table when Rick opened the security box.

"Good Lord!" There was a slightest pause. "We must report this to the police."

The voice was muffled and strangled, as if the speaker had her hand over her mouth. Dupré could not tell it belonged to Lana or Cecilia Simon.

It did not matter; he took the cue and loped into the formal living room. As the brothers looked up sensing the presence of someone else, he raised his semi-automatic handgun and, after a brief indecision, trained it on Rick Simon.

"No need to call the police. I'll take what is mine." With mounting excitement, his accent was more pronounced than usual.

The moment he uttered these words, however, he knew right away something was terribly wrong. The people seated around the coffee table were just too calm and collected, especially the women. He considered Lana high-strung; being cool-headed was not in her nature, but she didn't jump up from her seat screaming.

Despite the fact that he was being threatened with a deadly weapon, Rick only blinked a couple of times and grinned. "Well, about time!"

Just then, Dupré heard an unmistakable sound of the hammer of a revolver being cocked right behind him.

"Freeze! Drop your gun now!"

Right on cue, the two women in the armchairs jumped to their feet and spun around. They were total strangers, young females wearing gray wigs, and had guns in their hands. They were also wearing small earphones like hearing aids for receiving the update on their mark's movements from another cop on the lookout.

"Put your gun down on the floor!"

The voice from behind, stern but feminine, commanded again. There was nothing Dupré could do but surrender. As soon as he placed his Glock on the Persian rug, the woman—a police officer, no doubt—handcuffed him.

"Just in case you're wondering, your partners in crime, including the one in the Buick sedan, are being apprehended if they haven't been already," said the female cop. He felt the walls closing in on him and exploded in anger as he saw the Simons grinning.

"You tricked me! I should've known you're not smart enough to find the…"

He abruptly broke off not to incriminate himself further.

"The stuff you stole?" Rick smirked. "Something small enough to stash in the hidden compartment of the writing desk you sold to Ethan Young?"

Dupré's silence convinced the Simon brothers they were on the right track.

"Yeah, we found the false bottom in one of the drawers. We may not be the smartest people in the whole wide world, but we're not dumb enough to sell a piece of furniture along with the hot stuff. You sure did throw out the baby and the bath water, didnya?"

Dupré wanted to scream; he was a proud man and had little tolerance for criticism, not to mention mockery and insult. It took him a tremendous amount of self-control not to blurt out it was one of his employees, not he, who had sold the writing desk by mistake. One night, the cleaning crew had accidentally knocked off the 'sold' sign on it and put it on a wrong desk.

"You can speculate all you want, but you can't prove it, can you?" He was arrogant enough to believe he was infallible. "And I was merely defending myself when I drew my gun on you because you entered my fiancé's home without her consent."

"_Au contraire, mon frère_," said Rick smugly. His appalling American accent fanned the flames of the Frenchman's simmering anger. "Our mother called again after she left your store to let us know she and Lana are running late, and Lana said it was okay for us to wait for them here."

Cecilia had been instructed by her sons to let Dupré eavesdrop her phone conversation about their meeting then to stall Lana for at least half an hour.

"And we're pretty sure where to look to find whatever Ethan hid before his death. Aren't we, A.J.?"

Dupré snorted derisively. "You're bluffing."

"No, we're not." A.J. sounded confident. "Mr. Young never sent a mysterious letter to our mother, but she did bring us an envelope the other day. We asked her to find all the photographs from the last Christmas party Mr. and Mrs. Young hosted."

"Well, what'd you find, A.J.?" asked Barbara, who had played the role of Cecilia Simon. "Remember, I'm doing this for you guys on my day-off. I'm entitled to a big payback."

"And don't forget that I'm taking a half-day off for this," said Susie, disguised as Lana Young.

Chloe, standing behind Dupré, was the only officer in uniform and happy as a clam. This time the Simon brothers had lived up to their reputation and hadn't disappointed her.

"Yes, we're aware of it, ladies, but let's wait for Mrs. Young to arrive. We must ask her to show us something so we'll be able to prove our theory. She and our mother should get here shortly." A.J. then said to Dupré, "She's driving her Rolls-Royce today, just so you know."

His prediction was soon proven correct; Cecilia and Lana made a grand entrance not even five minutes later.

"What's going on? There are police cars in front of my yard, and I saw a man in handcuffs!"

As Dupré had predicted, Lana was freaking out like a dog during a firework extravaganza on the Fourth of July despite Cecilia's effort to calm her down.

Seeing her fiancé handcuffed behind his back, she stared at the Simon brothers and the female officers blankly—it was beyond her comprehension.

"Alain?" Shocked and bewildered, her voice shook.

"Mr. Dupré is under arrest, ma'am," said Chloe. "I'm sorry."

"Under arrest? What for? It must be a terrible mistake!"

A.J. shook his head. "No, Mrs. Young, I'm afraid not."

Lana was rendered speechless. She clutched Cecilia's arm as a drowning person might and, lost and scared, she could barely whisper, "Ceci?"

Cecilia gathered her friend into her arms and said, "Boys, I'm going to take Lana upstairs. She's distraught as you can see. I think she needs to lie down for a while."

"Let me help you," volunteered A.J. Accompanying the older women, he took a backward glance at the officers. "Stay put, ladies. I'll be back shortly."

"Are you kidding? You wouldn't be able to make us leave if you tried," Barbara mumbled making her fellow officers giggle.

A.J. stayed upstairs longer than Rick had, but eventually, he came down the stairs alone carrying a couple of large boxes. He plonked them down on the coffee table and smiled.

Barbara and Susie's eyes were riveted on the boxes.

When the brothers removed the lids of the boxes, the female officers were baffled and exchanged a quick glance.

"Christmas ornaments?" asked Barbara incredulously.

"Yup," Rick replied while happily pawing through the heap of ornaments with his brother doing the same by his side. "Ethan Young's will was very detailed and catalogued all his assets. There was nothing suspicious turning up in the home safe, the bank vault, or at work, so we're pretty darn sure whatever we're looking for is still here inside this house."

A.J. nodded. "And we're also sure Mr. Dupré has searched every nook and cranny here in the main house and the guest quarters since he moved in. Obviously, he's come up empty-handed."

"So, we went over everything we had on this case with a fine-tooth comb last night and…" Rick broke off abruptly and scooped up a bunch of ornaments shaped like Christmas presents with bows, which were strung together. "Here they are."

Under the captive audience's watchful eyes, he took out his pocketknife and selected the biggest box ornament. He then carefully inserted the blade under the top that was glued to the bottom.

The top came off, and Rick removed a wad of cotton from the box. The brothers peered into it and smiled triumphantly while the rest collectively held their breaths.

He tipped the box and caught the object that slid out on his palm.

The women, including Chloe who had come closer to have a better look, gasped to find what it was; Dupré only glowered at the Simons.

On Rick's palm was an exquisite antique gold filigree necklace with huge pink and blue diamonds.

"Are those diamonds real?" whispered Susie, her eyes as big as the rocks she was staring at.

"It's easy to find out, but by the look on Mr. Dupré's face, I don't think we need to send for an appraiser," said A.J. grinning.

He and his brother worked on the rest of the box ornaments like a couple of kids ripping open their presents on a Christmas morning.

"The saying about the best things coming in small packages sounds just about right, doesn't it?" muttered Rick looking at the loot the ornaments had yielded: custom necklaces, earrings, rings and loose diamonds and precious gems removed from their original settings.

"How in the hell did you figure this out?" Barbara asked in amazement and, quite possibly, awe.

"As we were saying, we got the Christmas pictures taken at Lana's party from Mom. We wanted to study the layout and contents of this house back then to see if anything had been removed or changed. After a while, it suddenly dawned on us—it was so glaringly obvious: Christmas tree." A.J. paused to take a breath. "Of course, the tree itself has been recycled and disposed since then, but most of us are attached to certain Christmas ornaments for sentimental reasons and hang on to them, wouldn't you say? Like these—the Young children made them when they were kids."

"Besides, they are the only ones that can hide something inside." Rick looked Dupré squarely in the face and said, "You stole wrong presents when what you really wanted was right under your nose. It's a classic case of 'The Purloined Letter,' as Detective Holmes might say."

"Detective Dupin," A.J. corrected him.

"What?"

"'The Purloined Letter" was written by Edgar Allan Poe, featuring C. Auguste Dupin."

"Whatever."

"You mean, whoever."

The brothers' inane banter was just too much for Dupré to bear, and he erupted cursing in French.

"What did he say?" asked Rick despite the fact that he had a pretty good idea.

"Well, I didn't get all of it, but _cochons_ and _merdes_ were among the words he used to describe us."

"I suppose they're not very flattering. Are they?"

"Afraid not. He also made an extremely rude remark on our mother."

Rick clucked his tongue shaking his head.

"Hey, Your Highness," he interrupted Dupré's tirade. "Your roots are showing,"

The Frenchman gave him the evil eye. "You moronic…"

To everyone's surprise, Rick cursed fluently in French. It was the ultimate insult about one's mother.

Dupré's face turned beet red, and he resumed cussing the Simons out in English and his native tongue on top of his lungs until the police officers led him to the police car parked outside.

"I didn't know you speak French," said A.J.

"I don't," shrugged Rick. "I just know how to cuss in eight languages."

"Just obscene words?"

"I also know how to say, 'Will you go to bed with me' in French, Spanish, Vietnamese and Swedish." Rick grinned from ear to ear.

"But of course." A.J. chuckled shaking his head. "I bet that's how you picked up those off-color expressions in various languages—by insulting ladies everywhere regardless of their nationalities or ethnicities with that particular question."

"Hey, you win some, you lose some."

"Uh-huh. In your case, the odds of winning must be worse than hitting the lottery jackpot though."

"Who's winning what?"

Cecilia was coming down the stairs to join her sons.

"Nothing important," Rick brushed aside her question. "How's Lana doing?"

"Not so good as you can imagine. She took some sedative her doctor prescribed after Ethan's accident, and she is resting now."

Her eyes, usually vivacious and full of life, were weary and troubled with worries.

A smirk was gone from A.J.'s face, and he said solemnly, "I can't imagine having to go through this kind of emotional turmoil again so soon after the tragic loss of her husband."

She nodded. "The explanation can wait—right now, she needs some space and time. But when she's ready to hear what took place here today, could you please make her understand it was the right and only thing we could do to protect her, that I did this behind her back because I love her…?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"We'll do our best, Mom."

The brothers murmured in unison.

"I'll stay with her at least tonight. I can't leave her alone in a state like this. Will you check on my place if I need to stay here for a few days?"

Her sons agreed to take care of her home and promised to bring changes of clothes and other personal effects for her later.

Seeing their mother trudging up the stairs, they left Lana's home while the police were still busy collecting the evidence.


	12. Chapter 12

As he stepped into a ritzy French restaurant through its enormous carved door, Rick self-consciously straightened his tie.

"I wish we could have lunch at some other place that doesn't require a jacket, not to mention a friggin' tie," he complained about the dress code.

"This is Mrs. Young's favorite restaurant, and she requested we meet up here. Placing her in her familiar surroundings should minimize her stress level when she has to listen to what we are about to tell her." A.J. reminded his brother.

Rick sighed in resignation. "Sometimes, I really don't envy the lifestyle of the rich."

He thought the maitre d' at the podium ahead was being snooty, looking at his modest attire critically, but he felt like grinning when a sudden change swept over every member of the wait staff present as soon as A.J. mentioned Lana Young's name. The maitre d' was now attentive and cordial.

Rick and A.J. were led to one of the best tables where Lana and Cecilia had been seated. They exchanged greetings with the women as they took their seats.

"I've already placed orders for all of us. I hope you don't mind. Everything on the menu here is excellent anyway," Lana told the brothers.

Rick was actually relieved to hear that because he didn't want to look like a fool trying to figure out what to order from a French menu.

Sipping a glass of fine, imported wine the waiter had served promptly, A.J. asked, "Have you been in touch with the police, Mrs. Young?"

"All she knows is Alain's been charged with numerous counts of burglaries, assaults, first degree murder among others, dear," Cecilia answered for her friend. "We haven't watched the news since…since that day."

It had been almost two weeks since Dupré's arrest, and the media coverage had started to die down. The police had kept her name out of the media release to shield the reputation of an upstanding citizen and generous philanthropist from the reporters' relentless scrutiny.

A.J. nodded sympathetically. "I'd like you to know you're not the only person duped by the insidious villain. He wormed his way into the chamber of commerce and the movers-and-shakers society. They are all stunned—they had no idea what kind of man he really is."

"Yeah, the good you thought you saw in him was only an illusion." Rick paused for a moment and gazed into Lana's eyes, which had started to tear up. "Knowing that won't ease your pain. As a matter of fact, you're hurting like hell, I know. Been there. What you already know up here in your head can't take away the pain in your heart. But you were able to work through your pain when you lost your good husband, and he was truly a decent man. I just hate to see you pining away after the likes of Dupré. He's not worthy of you."

He reached for her hand and enveloped it in his.

"So, are you up for this, Lana? If you say 'no,' that's fine with us."

Her eyes downcast, she was silent for full five seconds. When she looked up, they were still glistening with unshed tears, but there was a hint of steely determination behind them as well.

"Yes, I am. I have to face this sooner or later. Might as well get it over with."

"That's the spirit!"

He smiled and patted her hand before letting go of it then he gave his brother a little nod.

"All right, let's start off with his background," said A.J. "As far as we know, he has no claim to any of the Russian aristocratic titles. His Ukrainian Russian mother gave him a Russian middle name, Vasily, which means 'royal.' One of his associates, Guillaume Petrovich, who is also a Russian French, started calling him 'Your Highness' as a joke and it stuck."

"Lies, all those lies…" whispered Lana mournfully.

"He began his criminal career as a young runaway in France. By the age eighteen, he was a seasoned criminal and cunning enough to stay under the police radar. That's why he was allowed to immigrate to America because he didn't have any criminal record except the juvenile cases.

"After running away from home in his early teens, he joined a Russian gang in Paris. One of the members really was a distant relative of a Russian nobleman and had extensive knowledge of jewelry and other finer things in life. He took Dupré under his wing, and when he retired, he let his protégé take over his antique store he'd used as the façade for his fencing activities."

"Why did he move to this country?" asked Cecilia.

"There may be other reasons, but one of them must be expansion. When he settled in the U.S., he obtained an import/export license to set up a new antique shop in our city, but the real purpose was to smuggle the stolen goods out of the country to facilitate his fencing business."

"Yeah, he was shipping the hot merchandise hidden in other antique items to and from France in addition to moving and selling some of the stolen goods across the country," said Rick. "He used his underworld connections to hitch up with Petrovich, who recruited the other men on this side of the pond. He's another member of a Russian crime organization transplanted in America."

"I know Ethan got the writing desk because of a clerical mix-up at the store," Lana interrupted the brothers. "But why didn't he turn in what he found in it to the police? Why didn't he tell me?"

Rick and A.J. knew she had been greatly troubled by her late husband's decision to keep the stolen jewelry.

"Mrs. Young," A.J. said in a calm, measured voice. "I had the privilege of knowing him in person and by reputation. We met at several charity functions. He's one of the most generous, altruistic men I've ever seen."

"But he…"

"Mom also tells me he was extremely analytical, thorough and detail-oriented. For all I know, he was only doing some background research to trace the origins of the items, whether there had been reports on the stolen goods matching the descriptions of what he had. But rest assured that he had no intention of keeping them to himself. He had made an appointment with his attorney just a day before the accident."

"But why didn't he tell me anything about it?"

"For your protection, I guess," said Rick. "Maybe he had some premonition that someone might come after him to get the stuff back sensing how valuable those rocks must be."

"How valuable? Do you have any idea?"

"One appraiser's conservative estimate for everything we found in your Christmas ornaments is upwards of twenty million, possibly much, much more."

Lana and Cecilia were stunned at the monetary value.

"Dupré had already found a few potential buyers for the necklace with blue and pink diamonds before he realized it was missing, and he was desperate to get it and the other pieces back."

"Yeah. Lots of people get killed for a whole lot less, you know," said Rick.

"Do you think…?" Lana paused struggling to form a question she dreaded to ask. "Do you think Alain killed that poor man? Was he killed because he'd sold the desk to Ethan by accident?"

"No." Rick's answer was firm and swift. "Gary Chapman, the murder victim, was a weightlifter, well over 250 and had at least six inches on Dupré. There's no way a puny Frenchy like him could have strangled someone that outweighed him by a hundred pounds unless the vic was incapacitated or threatened with a deadly weapon."

"Besides, a couple of his underlings are cooperating with the investigation to receive reduced charges," said A.J. "They confirmed that it's Petrovich, who killed Chapman, but not because he'd sold the desk to your husband. He'd never worked a day in the antique shop—his work was strictly in the criminal department, burglaries, assaults, among others."

Noticing a puzzled expression on Lana's face, A.J. continued, "According to his accomplices, Chapman dabbled in illicit drugs and started using steroids in order to gain more muscles quickly, but they made him violent and unstable. He also started stealing from Dupré's cache to support his habit. So, Petrovich killed him as a warning to the others."

Lana shuddered at the thought of the violent world in which those criminals inhabited.

"Dupré's charged with the first degree 'cause he's the mastermind of the entire operation," Rick informed her. "Like I said, Alain Dupré you thought you knew doesn't really exist except in the twisted fantasy world you got sucked into. Just keep reminding yourself that the man you were engaged to is not real."

Lana picked at Dover Sole Meuniére, her favorite dish, and knew she was done with it.

"So… What's going to happen next?"

"Dupré will remain in custody 'cause he's a flight risk, and he's been denied bail. It'll be months, possibly years before this case goes to trial if ever."

"Even with the sworn statements from the two men who turned against him?" asked Cecilia.

"In a criminal trial, the burden of proof is on the prosecution side. Sworn statements have little meaning without solid evidence to back them up," said A.J. "Dupré committed thefts and smuggling in France and the U.S. and had a labyrinth of distribution network for the stolen goods. And then there are those antique items taken from countless homes, jewelry stores, museums to catalogue and to trace back to the rightful owners. It may be impossible to put everything together and deliver it in a neat, little package, but the D.A.'s office has to try its best to be thorough because, without proving his criminalities in the burglary and smuggling cases, it won't be able to make the murder charge stick."

An uncomfortable silence stretched for a minute or two at the table as Lana tried to digest so much information all at once.

She finally stopped staring at her unfinished lunch and looked up at A.J. "What'll happen to Alain if he's found guilty?"

"He's not a U.S. citizen; he's a legal resident with a green card. Because he's not a naturalized citizen, his permanent resident status will be revoked if he's convicted for a felony. He will still have to serve the sentence here unless his home country is willing to try and incarcerate him there. If he remains in the U.S. to serve his time, he will be deported to France when he gets out of prison."

A.J. did not say, 'if he's still alive after serving his time,' but it was on everyone's mind, and no one wanted to bring up the possibility of capital punishment.

Cecilia had been mostly quiet during the lunch meeting but could no longer keep silence when she saw a tear trickling down Lana's cheek.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Lana."

She embraced her friend fiercely almost smothering her. "I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry…so…sorry."

Rick and A.J. had to fight their urge to console the women in tears. Sometimes, it was all right to let tears flow to begin the healing process.

Eventually, Cecilia let her hands fall to her sides and deeply gazed into Lana's eyes.

"Will you ever forgive me…for what I've done?"

"Ceci…"

"I just couldn't let you marry a man like Alain. I just couldn't…"

"Listen, Ceci," Lana repeated her friend's name, her voice sounding a little stronger than before. "I would have done the same if I'd been in your shoes. That's what friends are for. _N'est-ce pas?_"

"Oh, Lana!"

They hugged each other and began to cry all over again. After a few minutes, their waiter came by to rescue the Simons brothers from the awkward situation.

"Excuse me, ladies. Are you all right? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Émile. We're making a spectacle of ourselves, aren't we?" Lana smiled feebly. "We're all right, but thank you for asking."

She rose from her seat holding her clutch purse. "Now boys, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to the ladies room. My makeup needs a major overhaul."

"So does mine." Cecilia giggled also rising from her chair.

A.J. kicked his brother's shin under the table to remind him that gentlemen were expected to stand up should a woman leave or arrive at the table.

When the two women returned to the table from the ladies' sanctuary, they noticed that Rick had eaten everything on his plate, and he was still munching on the last piece of baguette.

"I hope the food was to your liking, honey," said Lana with a tiny smile.

"Yeah, you bet!" Rick smiled back. "Even the stuff with green beans. What did you say it's called, A.J.?"

"Green beans."

"Oh, ha, ha."

"No, seriously. '_Haricots vert'_ means green beans."

"Even green beans can sound pompous in French," groaned Rick making everyone around him laugh.

"Like I said, I really enjoyed the food here, but now I feel like going out for dessert."

"But this restaurant offers an excellent selection of desserts."

"No doubt about that, but I want something American, steeped in the Simon family tradition."

"Hmm… What could it be?" Lana's eyes twinkled with curiosity.

"Ice cream." Rick grinned broadly. "Dad used to take us out for a double scoop to cheer us up when we were down or had a tough day."

"That was just his excuse to satisfy his sweet tooth, dear." There was a hint of smile in Cecilia's voice.

"Maybe, but it worked on us," said Rick shrugging his shoulders. "So, what do you say, Lana? Wanna go grab a scoop of excellent ice cream? I know a great place that opened recently."

"Well…"

"Come on. It'll do you good. Trust me."

Sensing the entire Simon family looking at her expectantly, Lana gave in. "Oh, all right, I suppose."

"Great!" Rick beamed and offered his arm to her. "You won't regret it!"

Leaning against A.J.'s arm, Cecilia silently watched them head for the door. She then looked up to gaze into his eyes and mouthed the words, 'thank you.'

His heart soared knowing that he and Rick had made their dear mother happy, that they had been able to make a difference in her life and Lana's.

When they stepped out of the restaurant, they spotted Rick and Lana, bathed in the dappled sunlight through the tree branches, walking ahead of them hand in hand.

"I think she's going to be all right, honey," whispered Cecilia.

A.J. merely nodded and smiled at her and at this perfect afternoon.


End file.
